Prisoners of Isengard
by Auset's Tears
Summary: Saruman's Uruk breeding program is in full swing. Tara, a pickpocket from Osgiliath, is about to become a part of it. Rated M, obviously... (Undergoing a rewrite)
1. Chapter 1

Tara sat on the crumbling stone wall, sucking her teeth in dismay. Pickings were slim since the city of Osgiliath had come under fierce attack. The prosperous merchants and their over-stuffed wives had packed their gear up and high-tailed to Minas Tirith, leaving behind the foolish, the ruthless, and the dirt poor who had not even grey stale bread to steal. Almost everything worth carrying off had been taken by the latest band of Orcs, but a fresh influx of soldiers might just tip the balance in Tara's favor. Night and day were reversed for the people of Osgiliath: the Orcs couldn't attack in the daylight, and so the soldiers were drunk in the morning and on alert nightfall.

It was morning now, and Tara's sharp grey eyes followed a whey-faced young warrior with a pouch that looked suspiciously full of bronze coins. The green young soldier was trolling the poor districts looking for a whore. Tara slipped off the wall and stalked him in the shadows of half-burnt row houses, hoping to catch him before some feathered and painted wench did. Tara'd had nothing to eat since the night before last: as a known criminal, she didn't qualify for a grain dole. _Curse you, Da,_ she thought bitterly. Her father, who was surely born drunk, had trained up his only child as a pickpocket. Lord Denethor had no mercy for thieves. Tara's Da's recent death meant nothing more than that Tara's earnings went to herself rather than his booze, and her face was no longer marred by the bruises he'd paid her out with when she kept a coin for herself.

"Eh, Tara, already on the take?"

Tara flew around furiously, her long black braid snapping like a whip. "Could you say it any louder, Gwenna?" she demanded, staring the old madam down.

Gwenna picked her teeth with a chicken bone and shrugged her fleshy bare shoulders. "When will you learn, child? If you want to put food in your belly, you'll have to open your legs. You're no better than any of us, and thieving doesn't seem to be working out so well in these black times. If you leave it much longer you'll be too damned skinny to whore!"

Tara cringed. "All I wanted to know of Men, my Da taught me. As soon as one sticks me, I'll surely stick him back." She patted the long dagger strapped to her thigh.

Gwenna laughed, remembering Tara's sot father, once a frequent customer before the booze claimed his manhood. She couldn't blame the girl a bit, though privately Gwenna thought Tara would come around in time. "Go on, dearie, before he gets away. And then come back if you like, we've got a little stale bread and moldy cheese you're welcome to."

"I won't have to fuck you for it, will I?" Tara asked, grinning wryly.

"First one's free for you, my lovely!" Gwenna cackled, and then the madam waived the girl off.

* * *

_"Move out! Go! Go! Get your shitty arses to the parade ground! Lucky day for you worthless little bitches!"_

Ushatar, the fastest, newest addition to Gharsh-il's platoon, didn't have to be told twice. He snatched his weapons from the _snaga_ commissar, giving him a playful cuff about the ears. "I'll bring you back a scalp for your collection, you miserable little shit!"

"Make it a yellow one," the commissar qualified flatly, shaking his head. What he wouldn't give to go along on the raid! Miserable was right! Lulled to Isengard with promises of pits full of white-skinned women for the taking and endless battle, the commissar was lucky if he caught a whiff of fresh air, let alone went off to battle. And as far as females… Well, once the first Uruks were born, those enormous devils were the only ones allowed to have their fun with the captives. The commissar would fuck a cat quick if he could find one.

"Yellow like the piss you gargle!" Ushatar laughed, running up the rickety wooden staircase. Gharsh-il's booming voice poured down through the tunnels of Isengard. The stern Uruk himself stood with meaty fists on hips at in the glaring sunlight above. Ushatar stiffened his back and thumped his chest a bit too earnestly as he approached the commander, winning him a ringing smack on the back of his head.

"No more of your foolishness, dungpile!" Gharsh-il roared. "Try not to break my fucking heart by dying, Ushatar!"

"Yes sir!" Ushatar barked smartly, shoving his helmet on his still humming head. He filed in with the other Uruk-hai, shoulder to shoulder in a legion of immense, heavily muscled killing machines.

"Wipe that stupid grin off your face before Sharku comes out," his neighbor—an Uruk with a long scar and a hole where his nose should be—muttered irritably. "Fucking newborn. Gonna ruin it for the rest of us."

"No grinning on parade. Got it. How about when I'm killing, I get to grin then?"

"Grin when we're waist deep in guts and man-flesh, youngling, and not a moment before. Recon says they've reinforced the city with soldiers from all over Gondor."

"But it's daytime!" Ushatar boasted. "And they've never seen the likes of us yet!"

"Shut your meat hole: the Master comes."

Ushatar knew what this meant already: shut up, stand tall, and don't _ever_ look him in the face. Gharsh-il was good for a rise, and he wouldn't whip you unless you fucked up and got weak or too stupid. Sharku would set a pack of Uruks on him to rip his flesh from his bones. Ushatar had seen it done five days after he opened his eyes.

The wizard appeared from nowhere, it seemed. Hardly anything frightened Ushatar, but the wizard was one of them. Pale and cold and distant, as if most of his mind was always elsewhere, and yet intently keen when he wished to be, Saruman walked along the ranks of his Fighting Uruk-hai and allowed himself a small smile. _A little closer to perfection,_ he thought. But not quite yet.

"Warriors!" Saruman called, and Ushatar joined in the roaring reply. Saruman offered a smile now, which made Ushatar supremely content though he couldn't for anything explain why. "Today we strike a blow to the heart of Gondor! Run to the city of Osgiliath and fall like raptors on the white-faces! Torture, kill, taste the flesh of Men!"

A resounding roar at that. Ushatar's mouth moistened in a sudden, powerful desire. But again, the wizard held up his hand.

"You will kill the _men_, and the children, but take their women and do what you will with them, and those who survive it…" Saruman paused and allowed for the hooting and cackling of his troops. "Those who survive, bring them to Isengard. Those of you who win glory in battle shall have your fill of these captives! To Osgiliath!"

Ushatar let out another bellowing roar. He was sure he could taste blood already. The troops turned to the southeast in lockstep, ready to march out. But Sharku murmured to Gharsh-il, "Make certain you bring no less than thirty females back. Bring two for yourself."

The Uruk commander's throat rumbled with anticipated desire. He nodded affirmatively, then turned to parallel his troops and began to run. "_Go! Run! Run, you swine-fuckers, or I'll tear every last one of you to pieces!"_


	2. Chapter 2

It was all too easy. The soldier boy—an aristocratic youth with soft brown ringlets and feigned swagger—leaned in a rough stone doorway with a red curtain, talking to a pretty, curvaceous blonde who had reddened her cheeks and lips with a prick of her own blood.

_Stupid, she doesn't care for your prowess in battle, _Tara thought, _If there's any to speak of!_ She walked casually closer down the crowded street, shaking out her black braid into crimping waves that ran down to her hips. To track a mark in a neighborhood of whores, make like a whore, her Da had taught her, spit on his memory and grave! Most of the neighborhood women knew Tara well, had fed her at times and lost a coin or two doing it. They tolerated her for her youth, and for the good heart that could be dug out when the girl was full and content. Now they grinned and whispered behind their hands, even if they felt a pang of regret at watching a soldier fleeced.

" 'Scuze me, Sir," Tara murmured, brushing slightly against the soldier boy. She let him catch her eye for a moment, did a little sweep with her black lashes, and then went on her way, quickly stuffing his purse into the binding on her swelling breasts. The whores snickered, and went back to their work.

And then the worst thing happened. Tara had not gotten fifteen paces away when she heard an elegant youthful voice calling, "Hi! Miss, wait a moment!"

Tara continued on ignorantly, smiling at those she knew, like the old widow who sold potions to the whores that kept a child from sticking, and a veteran of the earliest Orc attacks who had stumps for legs and begged his bread in the street. _What think the Steward about that?_ Tara wondered, deciding to share some of her catch with the man once she shook her mark. Approaching the mean market of the poor quarter, Tara darted between lean-to stalls the sad-looking curtains that partitioned them. A ribbon maker cursed and wailed at her but she was small and quick, having learned long ago that speed beat size many a time.

But she did not know that the boy she'd robbed was a passionate hunter and tracker, and when she emerged from the curtains, leaving the furious merchants behind, Tara crashed into him.

"Aha, there she is!" the boy laughed, grabbing Tara by the shoulders.

"Get off me or I'll gut you!" Tara hissed. "Go see the whores for all that!"

"And how will I pay them, little miss?"

"That's your own affair!" Tara said, stamping down on his foot and bolting when he dropped her in shock. The young soldier turned on his heel and chased after her.

_This is not happening!_ Tara thought, running now into the near deserted streets of the better parts of Osgiliath, the neighborhoods of the well to do who had taken their families and business to their other homes in the Great City. Where there were low walls she hopped them, where there was an ally she bolted through it. She had no desire to spend the night in the docks, locked up like an animal and hungry besides. Finally Tara no longer heard pounding feet behind her. She leaned against the rough stone wall of an abandoned house, catching her breath. Feeling the rough ridges in her back, Tara turned around and climbed to the roof. Finally, with a view of the street, the river, and the wide plain to the northwest, she felt safe enough to sit down and count her money. She loosened the leather thong and turned the purse out in her hand, spilling both silver and bronze into her palm. Her heart jumped into her throat: if she was smart, there was enough to eat for weeks! Tara could almost taste the bread—and meat!—she would buy. There might even be enough for a good coat, even though the war was making such things dear. Tara lay back on the stone roof and let the morning sun shine on her face, her lips curved into a wide smile. And then she felt the cold blade of a sword at her throat.

"Got you!"

Tara's eyes shot open to the sight of the soldier boy lording it above her, pinning her to the ground with his flashing sword. Her breath rushed out of her and she lay paralyzed, marveling in horror that after years of ducking her lushy, lusty father, not to mention all the pimps of Osgiliath, she would finally be raped on a rooftop by a soldier of Gondor.

The boy frowned and withdrew his sword, sheathing it. "Hey now, don't cry, don't be afraid! I was only playing with you."

"_Playing!_" Tara spat, still shaking. She jumped to her feet to face him on something like equal ground. She realized then that his purse still lay fat and full at her feet. "Sneaking up on a girl and pinning her down at the point of a sword is a _game_ to you?"

"What do you call stealing a fellow's purse from his very hip, then making him chase you all over the city?"

"Survival!" Tara snapped. As ashamed as she was, she was helpless against reaching down and snapping up the purse. "And now I call it tax, for scaring the life out of me."

The boy grinned, a pampered youth who'd never known want at all. "My name is Darian, and you're welcome to the purse, though I'd rather you asked me for it. The only thing I ask in return is that you share a bite to eat with me in the tavern."

"Go back to Mela, if you want a fuck. I'm no whore."

Darian's cheeks colored slightly at Tara's coarse tongue, and she snorted in contempt.

"Sure, you can do it. You just can't talk about it, right?"

"I'm just not used seeing such ugly words come from such a pretty mouth. And I don't want to talk to Mela anymore, I'd rather talk to you."

"Talk?" Tara asked, arching her thin black eyebrows. "I don't 'talk' either. Or anything else you want to call it."

"Are you always so mean?"

"Are you always so rude?" she demanded in return, self-consciously braiding her hair with furious fingers. "Go back to your post and get some sleep. Aren't you supposed to be protecting us?"

"I will protect you. My other name is Orc-Slayer. Won't you come walk by the river with me? I've got some wine and some dried apples. D'you like apples?"

"You just don't hear, do you? I'm not some simple poor creature to eat out of your hand! I stole your money fair and I don't need your handouts. And I don't fuck for food. And since there's no other possible reason you'd speak to me, you might as well just step aside. I've somewhere to be."

"Back in the stews picking pockets?"

"Fuck you," Tara hissed, her cheeks flaming, her stomach aching miserably for wine and dried apples. She marched around Darian imperiously. He leaped before her again, pouting and making sheep's eyes at her. "Leave me alone!"

Darian laughed and replied, "Look, I'm really sorry. The truth of it is, I'm bored to tears here. The other men have all seen battle, and they are stoic and grave and rather comical to me. My mother made me join the service—it's what's done in my family, you see—but so far nothing glorious has happened, other than our rations arriving on time. I just want to make some friends my own age."

"I thought your name was Orc-Slayer," Tara sniped.

"It will be. I promise."

Tara stared hard at him. "You really have no idea, do you? When they come, you'll wish you were still lying in Mama's lap. And they _will_ come back, as long as that sky is black in the east, as long as—" Tara shook her head, shuddering. "The Enemy," she murmured, afraid to say anymore. Then her grey eyes flashed and she said, "That's what you should be thinking about. Not girls."

"Maybe I'd rather think about girls," Darian admitted quietly. "If these are to be my last days, I'd rather spend them with a pretty girl than a pack of gruff old soldiers."

Tara closed her eyes in frustration. Now she was to pity him? "At least that sounds like truth," she said.

"It is, since you drag it out of me. And I don't want to pay a whore, I'd rather just talk to you. So what do you say? Will you walk with me on the riverbank? Unless you'd rather spend your day getting chased through the streets by a bunch of angry merchants? That haberdasher looked fit to split your skull when you knocked his table over."

"He's harmless," Tara replied, pursing her lips a little.

"What's this? She _smiles?_ The sun has returned!"

"It never went away, you dolt. But—" she pinched her eyes shut incredulously, hardly believing herself. "If you'd like to buy me a good hot meal, I suppose it'd be my duty to accept. You are an Orc-Slayer, after all. Or will be, soon enough. But keep your paws to yourself, you hear me?"

"I'd never sully a lady's honor," Darian said with the upmost sincerity.

"A lady would complain to the constable. I'll cut your sword into a butter knife."


	3. Chapter 3

_Usharat ran through the Gap of Rohan. He hardly thought now—that was how it was on a run. His only hunger was for battle, his vision was the first kill. His thirst was blood. He was with three hundred as powerful and hungry as himself. He was invincible._

"And sooo…" Mela prompted, stirring her finger in her ale and sucking the foam. "Did you?"

"Of course not!" Tara smacked Mela's hand lightly.

" He'd have to find it first, right? Knock his way through the cobwebs?" Gwenna grinned, bringing over a mouthwatering roasted chicken. None of them mentioned the fact that it was a gangly old rooster bought at a ridiculously inflated price.

"Disgusting," Tara said. "Anyway… He went back to his barracks, and he said he'd meet me again tomorrow. But I'm not going to go."

"You said that already," Gwenna said, sitting down on the wooden bench. "Four times. What's going on, missy?"

Tara tucked her head away from them. "Nothing at all."

Mela grinned over the board to Gwenna.

"He's not… my type. Not that I would. I like being on my own. Don't need another man telling me what to do and taking my money."

"Darlin', I don't think he's thinking about that. It's you he wants, I can see it."

"Sure, Gwenna," Tara said, smiling. "I bet he'll take me to meet his mother tomorrow. The Constable himself can give me away at our wedding. Or better yet, why not the Lord Steward?"

"You don't have to marry him, Tara," Mela said. "But he'd keep you nice for a while, in your own house, and you'd keep it when he's done with you. Have you dressed in nice things, teach you to ride a fine horse… Maybe he'd even love you forever."

"Are we talking about me or you now?" Tara asked, rolling her eyes.

"It could happen," Mela said, smiling seductively. "Isn't that right, Gwenna. Didn't that—What was her name, Diendria, didn't she meet a nice man?"

"Aye, it happens, sometimes. Always nice to dream. But me? I put my money up, and bought this place, and now I keep sluts like you around. Oh—beggin yer pardon, Miss Tara Cobwebs. A dream is a fine thing, Mela, but a good plan is better. Then maybe the dream will come along."

"Did it come for you, Gwenna?" Mela asked.

Gwenna pursed her lips for a moment, her grey-green eyes reflective. "He died a long time ago." Then she slapped her thick, sturdy hands on the table and stood up. "But I still got the house, and a shitload of coin. I'm goin' to the well now, before it gets dark."

"It's not even evening yet," Tara said, her fingers making a sign against evil. "We still have… time."

"Never leave off for later what can be done right away! Eat up, my lovelies!"

Osgiliath died at night, in almost every way. The streets were emptied, even the livestock inside. People lay in their beds, or in such hiding places as they made for themselves, holding their breath. Most lights were extinguished. The only life in the streets was that of the brave soldiers of Gondor, but they were stretched in these days, their dominion under attack. At first dawn one could hear the exhale of the city, and the people emerged from their sturdy stone houses to go about their business.

Tara helped clean up after her early dinner. She had to see a woman about a coat near the center of the poor quarter. Winter was coming, and it seemed to be a harsh one. The breeze was cold in her face, but the sun was strong. A handful of laughing boys ran by, taking turns pushing a great rolling hoop with their sticks. Tara watched them, thinking of better days when there would have been a gang of fifteen or twenty. It seemed their very laughter echoed into a chill void where the silence was louder than the sounds.

"Get on home, girl," Gwenna said, passing Tara with a bucket of water in her arms. "Strange feeling in the air today."

Tara felt her knees weaken a little, her stomach turn sour. There were still threats in the day, though very rare. Men from the far south and east sent by the Evil One from the place of dread across the mountains, and pirates from the coast who sailed up the river to raid the city. It was late afternoon now; the light was deepening, diminishing. Like everyone in Osgiliath, Tara measured daylight by her every breath.

Madam Willan—one could call her no less—ran a decent trade as a seamstress. Her husband had killed a man over a bad debt and ruined the family's reputation, and so Madam Willian started off getting her hands on scraps of cloth the wealthy merchants' wives threw away. Now she made dresses for all Gwenna's girls, but Tara wanted a nice wool coat lined with sheepskin, and a large enough hood to shadow her face for her work.

The seamstress was quick with Tara: she was in a furious conversation with her first tenant in a small shack she'd bought to rent out. Still, she insisted on fitting Tara, doing up the carved bone buttons, checking the hood. "I made it wide, so you can show your pretty little face a bit, when you dare it. Catch yourself a nice fella. Maybe a soldier boy?"

"You know about Darian too? What's wrong with this place, no one has anything better to do?"

Madam Willian fixed Tara with a hard stare. "No one wants to see you dead in the gutter for snatching from the wrong one. That's all. If the gent is kind, you shouldn't let him slip away."

"I'm careful, Madam Willian. I'm always careful."

"You're young. You think no one is faster, no one is smarter. Until you meet him. Go on, now, I've got a cheat to scold."

Tara stepped out into the street, instantly grateful for the coat as a frigid wind blew by. She began to walk back towards her home, the sound stone cottage that belonged to her father in a warren of small, smoky houses. The house was one of the only things from the long ago time when her father worked, and Tara took great pride in keeping it up alone.

Far away, at the northern edge of the city, a bell began to clang faintly. Tara's blood ran cold. The sound was picked up immediately by other watchtowers, and then the criers in the quarters, a panicked cacophony of screaming metal. The streets turned to chaos as citizens began to run, some screaming, some seizing planks of wood or clay amphorae, whatever cheap weapon was at hand until they got to their homes. The bulk of the soldiers were in the better areas, so there was no comforting rush of boots on the pitted cobbled street.

And then the screams changed, and Tara froze for a moment at the completely new wail of terror. It was almost animalistic: people's senses left them, and the only thing left behind was pure primal fear. Tara started to run as the first immense black forms blew like a black wind into her neighborhood, with a speed and agility belonging more to wolves than Men. She couldn't name the thing: it was no Man, but a monster, and twice the size of an Orc.

_Not too much father, _she told herself, dashing madly for her door. She didn't even want to think about what it _was_ now slaughtering people in the street behind her. There was a cruel, sneering, guttural roar mixed with the squealing of terrified pigs at butchering time. Only they were not pigs, but Tara's friends and enemies and neighbors. She didn't want to see, didn't want to know it. Tara skidded into her house and dropped the heavy oak and iron plank to bar her door. The house was one large room with a hearth on the first floor, with stone stairs leading up to a second story above. There were three small rooms divided by wooden walls on the second floor. In the last room another stone staircase led to the narrow rooftop. Behind the staircase was a false wall. Tara ran into that cold, tight, quiet place and pulled a grey blanket across the narrow gap of space. Anyone looking in would see nothing but stone. Tara, now in complete darkness, listening to the muffled slaughter outside, closed her eyes and counted her breaths to stay calm.


	4. Chapter 4

*Warning: this chapter isn't for the faint of heart. The City of Osgiliath is sacked by Uruk-hai, and all that goes along with that.

Ushatar's hooked sword ran red with blood, and his roar echoed in the streets. The dead lay around him in mangled piles of tossed about limbs and ripped guts. Thirty scalps hung from his armor and belt, not half as many as he had killed. There was still some action in his peripheral senses: a woman dragged by her hair, a child tossed in the air for a waiting pike, two laughing Uruk's tearing a man apart by the arms. But there were no more humans around Ushatar, and so he leaped the piles and jogged down a dark blood-slicked street. Screams rang out from stone dwellings, licking at his ears. His eyes scanned the area for anything that moved, but all was still for the moment. He inhaled a great gust of air, tasting the usual metallic fear, the meaty iron of blood, the harsh ammonia of piss. He jogged a few more strides ahead, and then something new tickled his nostrils and danced over his tongue, a scent Ushatar couldn't place or name that became, an entrancing trail that floated—ever so slightly—above Saruman's bloody whispers.

Ushatar jogged on, but it faded away. He turned, creeping door to door as the trail grew stronger. He set his hard, clawed hand on a wooden door and gave it a push, then rammed it with his shoulder, collapsing the thick oak into shards, tearing the iron reinforcement from the wood and sending it crashing to the ground. Ushatar stepped into the dark dwelling. The scent was overpowering now, and Ushatar realized that it was female… _ripe_ female.

A small voice whispered that this alone wouldn't have drawn him so hard: they were all over the city, enough of them getting fucked close-by to make his cock iron hard even as he fought. But that was _thinking_, and Ushatar was running on blood-lust and black magic now. He merely followed. It flooded him so hard that it took a moment even for such a finely bred killer to choose his path, but when he did, he walked slowly up the stairs, his sword raised in anticipation. The area was divided in threes. Ushatar came slowly forward, sniffing the air, his blood racing with violent urges and desire.

* * *

Tara prayed. There was nothing left to do but pray at this point. She could hear the beast sniffing the air for her. She could hear his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. She prayed something would divert it, turn it away, but it kept on. Tara clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She could hear its low, growling breath just beyond the curtain.

A dark, clawed hand ripped the sheet back, and Tara could feel her legs about to melt beneath her. The beast in the darkness was enormous—two heads above her at least, and near twice as wide. It had the build beyond the most powerful Man in the world. His carnivore's eyes glowed a sick amber-green, even in the blackness, and Tara had the skin-scrawling feeling that it could see her perfectly. _Don't let this hurt too badly,_ she thought desperately. And the beast's harsh breathing turned into a low, rolling growl, and she saw long, flashing white canines in its mouth, and that was more than Tara could take. She darted out from the tiny space, slinking under the beast's massive reach, and took off for the stairs to the rooftop. The beast's footsteps pounded behind her. Tara pushed the wooden trap door to the roof, but it stuck. She let out a sob of fury and terror, smacking it desperately over and over with her palm. The door popped open and she flew out into the dusky light, the clawed hand catching the air around her booted ankle.

Tara ran towards her neighbor's roof, pushing aside the sheets hung for a divider. The next house was on the corner, she would climb the low wall and jump down to the street. She would break her leg and drag herself away, if she had to! Then a massive weight hit her back and the creature was on her, his arms wrapped around her waist, pressing her into its immense hard chest where there was cold armor. Blackened chain mail flashed on the thick arms.

Tara whipped up her grey-brown homespun dress and ripped a long wooden-handled dagger from its sheath, and plunged it into the beast's thick thigh. It let off a blood-freezing roar and Tara slipped from the crushing grasp, tearing in a panic for the wall, and freedom. But even as she ran for the wall she heard the sounds of a massacre from the street below.

Tara was trapped. Behind her, a hard grunt and a noise of wood and metal hitting stone. _It had pulled the long dagger out of its own leg, and was coming for her again._

She glanced around swiftly. The only possible weapon was a log of firewood. She ran for it, snatched it up, and turned to face her attacker.

The creature stopped in its tracks, and Tara swallowed, praying there was fire in her eyes. It cocked its head to the side, its long, wild black hair catching in the wind. It had a strange, terrifying face in the evening light: extremely knowing, with the high rugged features of something Tara could only imagine a wolf crossed with an Elf would look like. Its long black hair was quite deliberately shaved on two sides, the top braided back and falling thick and straight to its waist. Its armor bore a large white hand like a badge. Hideously, the creature _grinned._ And then it raised its sword, crouched a little into stance, and weaved towards her. Tara didn't think she had the heart to swing, but soon she had no choice. The beast swung its hooked sword hard at her, and Tara blocked it instinctively with the thick wood, the force of the blow ringing her arm. She was appalled to see that the blade was so expertly maneuvered that the wood had been shaved. The beast came at her hard then, again and again, whittling her club down to nothing, pushing her hard against the wall. It was taunting her deliberately, and Tara was about to piss herself. Her back hit the stone wall and the beast pushed its black sword—slick with red blood—against Tara's throat. It leaned down in her face and Tara cringed away. She could hear it breathing her in. Surely there were only moments—flashes—of life left.

Then a hand closed on her throat and she was thrown to the ground, and the beast landed on top of her so hard she lost her breath. It didn't dawn on her what was happening: she was still sure she was about to die. But when she felt the clawed hands ripping up her dress, Tara prayed she _would _die.

With nothing left to lose, Tara fought like a rabid animal, screaming shrilly. She clawed for its face and punched its chest until her fists hurt but the beast only dropped more of his weight on her, then caught her hands up. It was like being crushed by a fallen ceiling, the monster was so strong. Its knees forced her legs apart like a stone tearing through parchament paper. The heat of him was between her legs hideously fast, pressing at her secret places, then battering against her as if in frenzied excitement; her screams were full of pain now, but when the beast tore through her maidenhead, vomit rose in her throat. Tara swooned. The last thing she heard was the demon _speaking _to her in low, hard, guttural tones, her own language: "Fight me now," the monster purred in her ear. "Fight me now."

The world went black and numb, and Tara was gone.

* * *

Ushatar lay back on the rooftop, feeling the cold wind on his wet, sweaty body, until he heard the wailing of the slaughter die down. It was replaced by sharp, barked orders in the Black Speech. Ushatar sat up, draping his lanky arms over his knees. He had to get up, get going, but he wished he could make sense of why he felt as if a bucket of cool water had been poured over his head. He never felt things like wind on his face until he was well away from a battle, until the rituals of victory were completed and the flesh eaten and the women ravished, and there was nothing to do but bring the spoils home. Only then did Ushatar's mind return fully. But for some reason, it was happening much faster. He reached for his sword and pushed himself up, looking down at the female splayed and bloody before him. She still smelled so damn _good._ Maybe that was it. He had been eager in other battles, and satiated easily, but the feeling of satisfaction Ushatar felt now was unlike any other. He nudged the female with the toe of his leather sandal. She was out cold.

_Master said thirty women, for the best fighters,_ Ushatar thought. His cunning hearing had caught that easily. Dressed up with scalps, surely he qualified as a top fighter? He couldn't be sure—the haze of blood lust had been as strong as ever, until the explosion he'd made in the female—but Ushatar thought he'd been fighting next to Gharsh-il for part of it. Ushatar yanked off his plain leather belt and squatted over the female, binding up her hands. He wanted her, again and again and again. And as ripe as she smelled, surely Gharsh-il would choose her for the cohort of breeders. Ushatar bound her hands tightly and lifted her limp body, amazed at how light it was. He threw the girl over his shoulder and went down through the dwelling. Outside, heat from a thousand fires touched Ushatar's cheeks as he walked through the streets. It wasn't hard to find the commander: listen for the bellowing roars. Ushatar hunted down his leader, then caught Gharsh-il's attention.

"I wanna take this one along, sir."

"Go ahead. I'm not dealing with any of the plunder until we've made camp well into the mountains. But fall the fuck in line. We've done our work here."


	5. Chapter 5

_Tara was caught in a nightmare. Paralyzed, she couldn't move, couldn't open her eyes. Pain clawed and tore at her as her body rattled and shook. She felt motion, she felt her body hanging the wrong way, but she had no sense of direction, no true sense of self. No sense of anything but the pain, which became worse as she felt herself hit the ground, and the crushing weight again, and then a feeling of being ripped apart all over, so much worse than before, the raw hurt of the first time blending with the agony of the second… She floated in the pain, a red and silver world of stabbing, slicing misery, and she couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't even scream._

Ushatar gave a whoop of joy and jumped up, dropping his breechclout over his massive—but quivering—cock. The female's body was so small it gripped him in a delicious hot vice, but enough was enough. If he didn't get permission soon, the cohort of thirty would be full and his prize would be used up by the rest, then butchered for meat. That thought send a spike of black rage through Ushatar. She was _his._

Victory was all around him. He could see women pinned to the ground by four or five Uruks, which was why he'd taken the precaution of smothering his female's mouth when he fucked her, even though she was unconscious. He didn't want her to come awake and scream, because it would set off a frenzy. What soldiers weren't despoiling females were chopping up meat to eat raw on the run home. Ushatar was ravenously hungry, and the Voice in his mind told him to tear flesh and drink blood, but as appealing as that was, Ushatar had plans to make. He looked around the camp and found Rakhan sitting nearby, re-fletching recovered arrows.

"Didn't get a female for yourself?" Ushatar asked.

Rakhan kept his eyes on his work. "_Amat?_" he asked in return. "What for? There were enough back there."

"Yeah, but for _now_!"

"Fucking newborn," Rakhan laughed. "Tharuk died. I'm second now. I'll be in the pits for the next _month_ at least, doing my duty for the Old Man. Since we're in enemy territory, I'll let the others carry my new bitches. I'll carry my weapons and keep my hands free."

Ushatar squatted down beside the older warrior. "Get me in. To the pits."

"Gotta talk to Gharsh-il about that, whelp. Nothing I can do for you. But you fight good. You've a chance."

"Where is he?"

"Pussy pile, squeezing hips and tits." Rakhan glanced over his shoulder. "Guess you want that one to go down?"

"_Bolk-izg ta._ I need her."

Rakhan turned his full attention on Ushatar, his dangerous green eyes flashing. "Fuck for?"

"For fuck!" Ushatar laughed.

Rakhan narrowed his leonine eyes, instantly suspicious. "You aren't shit, whelp. What you need isn't _shit._ You don't have any fucking needs if it isn't what Master needs. Best remember that. Gharsh-il butchers Uruk flesh too, and it goes down almost as smooth."

"Gotcha," Ushatar said. "Sir."

Rakhan waved his hand. "Get the fuck out of my face now."

Ushatar jogged over to a circle of salivating Uruk-hai. In the center females—in various stages of injury and misery—were laying on the ground, sobbing and moaning, flickering in and out of consciouness. Gharsh-il was looking them over, measuring them for merit.

"Mautor Gharsh-il!" Ushatar called, perching on his toes like an eager child.

The officer looked up, the grimace that passed for his smile curling up his magnificently ugly face. "Ushatar…" he said, rumbling the name in an almost affectionate way. "Excellent, _excellent_ work. Master will be most pleased. There will be rewards."

"About that, sir, I know what I want."

"Oh?" Gharsh-il stamped over the females, approaching the cocky young warrior.

"Can I show you?"

"You cannot _say _it?"

"Rather show you, sir."

"You're a good soldier, Ushatar, but a fucking _pain_ in the ass. Well, hurry up! I need to pick out ten more females, and this is a sorry, skinny lot. Starving times in Gondor," Gharsh-il complained. "Better bitches come from Rohan. But orders are orders, what can you do?"

As soon as they had cleared the circle—Gharsh-il issuing a stern threat to leave the choice females alone—Ushatar said, "I've got one for the pits. But I want her myself. I will make strong soldiers on her."

"What the fuck is this warg shit, Ushatar? Now you think you know how to do my job? You think you can do the Master's job, ordering breeding pairs?"

Ushatar bit his lip in excitement, leading Gharsh-il back to the black-haired female hidden in the tall grasses. Ushatar saw Rakhan snort and shake his head as they passed. "Here she is. Doesn't she smell so _hot_?"

Gharsh-il curled his lips away from his sharp fangs. "This is the skinniest wench I've seen yet! And all that blood! She can't even _fuck_ let alone _breed!_ You've done some stupid shit, Ushatar, but this…"

"No—Sir, she's a little small, but I think she's one of their young ones. Which means she'll get bigger. And she's fertile, you can tell that yourself, just _smell _her. Fertile right now. Which means it'll be my whelp anyway, so why not put her in the pits, and let me have her?"

"Nothing is yours!" Gharsh-il barked. "All is the Master's, even that sorry cock dangling between your legs and everything that comes from it!"

Ushatar flinched. "Yes, the Master. What I mean is, I can make a better soldier for _him._ With _her._"

"I am running out of patience, soldier!"

"Look what she _did_ to me, sir! Stabbed up my leg, almost bashed my head with a club, scratched the _shit_ out of me. Almost took my eyes out."

"Says a lot more about _you_, _pushdug!_"

"She's got courage," Ushatar said. "More than the others. When I stuck her she didn't seem so much scared as furious. She's got heart. Make a good litter, tough and strong, none of that human weakness."

Gharsh-il grunted, looking down on the bloody scrap of girl. "All right, Ushatar. You got it. But if you whelp females, I swear I'll strangle you with _her_ fucking innards. Now burn that hole in your leg closed, eat something, and get ready to run."

"_Akhoth!_ Yes sir!"

* * *

Red and silver faded to black. Tara's eyes flickered open, and immediately she wished they hadn't. The pain of her dreams became a monstrous, excruciating reality. It hurt just to _breathe._ She was confused for a moment, out of doors and in the cold, the dark. Around her were deep voices, speaking a ghastly language.

And then it came back to her, and Tara clamped her hands over her mouth not to scream. Turning her head she saw the monsters everywhere: raping, ripping flesh, laughing wickedly. And she was their prisoner.

_Can I get away?_

Tara tried to move, and was punished with searing pain. Everything from her belly down felt like molten jelly. She brushed her fingers over her trembling thighs and they came back dripping blood. _Ay Valar,_ she wept silently, unable to stop the sudden seizure of shaking. She could not move. And likely, they would see her if she did.

They seemed far away, but when she turned her head, one was close. She knew him immediately, for he wore no helm—having thrown it off when his blood was quickened by battle—and she recognized the strange hairstyle: shaved on the sides, braids and rough straight hair hanging from the top of his skull down his broad back. There was a fire nearby, and a piece of glowing iron in his hand. He pressed it to his thick bare thigh and tilted his head skyward as his flesh sizzled and burnt. He made no sound, though, as if the pain was nothing to him.

He was the one who had raped her.

Tara's fingers clenched into fists and hot tears streamed down her face. She felt like the worst of filth, she felt terrified. But more than anything, she wanted to kill the beast who had done this to her, and then maybe kill herself.

Only she could not move.

Then his head turned, the nostrils of his sharp, almost aquiline nose flared. The monster turned around with that leering grin and _crawled_ over to her, putting his face close to hers.

"Pissed off, huh?"

This was too much to bear. As dry as her mouth was, she collected the remaining moisture in it and spat into his frighteningly angular face. The reaction was immediate. His huge, clawed hand raised up and batted Tara across the face. Lights popped behind her eyes and shamefully, she began to cry harder. _Not again, not again, please not again…_

"Don't be stupid, _tarka_. I'm the only thing between you and _that._" He grabbed her head and turned it so that she saw, only ten or so feet away, a woman being raped by half a dozen beasts. Tara realized in horror that the woman's mouth was open in an eternal scream, and the light of life in her eyes was gone.

Tara vomited immediately. The beast _laughed_, and then dragged her away from her own mess. He pulled out a rough-hewed canteen, lifted her head roughly off the ground, and pushed the metal to her lips. Tara smelled a fiery, alcoholic beverage within, and her stomach began to rebel again.

"_Akr_, _tarka._ Drink. We'll be off soon, and you'll want to sleep."

She loathed that she had to speak to the beast, but if she had any hope at all, she needed information. She obeyed—raging that she had to—and took a sip. It burned all the way down to her belly, worked a hot path through her pain, burning it as the beast had burnt his leg. The injury she had dealt him, Tara recalled, though it hardly avenged her. "Where—?" she tried, surprised at the weakness in her voice. Her agony was slightly lessened, and a drunken haze settled on her immediately.

"To Isengard, to my home. You belong to me now."


	6. Chapter 6

"_Snaga_ Shit-Face! I didn't forget you. Here's a pretty yellow one for you, all curls." Ushatar shifted the weight of the unconscious female over his shoulder and tossed a bloody scalp to the commissar.

Ghuribal the Orc caught the scalp and pressed it to his dirty grey face, inhaling the rich warmth so hard his prominent pointy ears twitched. "Very nice, very nice…" Then his eyes wandered over the female's backside resting high on the Uruk's shoulder. Sweet fresh blood seeped through the back of her heavy garment. "Though I'd rather have that for a treat… Well worth your while…"

A brutal growl curled from Ushatar's throat, almost before he even registered the comment. The Orc's eyes—intrigued now—sparked wide and he threw his hands up submissively. "Easy, youngling, no harm meant."

"I'm not your fucking youngling," Ushatar hissed, turning away from the armory station.

"You might be!" Ghuribal called, once Ushatar was at a safe distance and the line moved on. The Orc inhaled the scalp one more time, then tucked it dandily in his own belt.

Two heavy set Uruks stepped up next, Dolpan No Nose and his shadow Grashghar. "Fuck was that about?" Dolpan asked, subtly tossing a bag of coins across the counter along with his weapons. Isengard—for the most part—was an unarmed zone. Ghuribal simply forgot to count the multiple daggers stashed in the Uruk's clothes and orifices.

"First time jitters, must be. Going down to the pit with her?"

"Lucky little shit," Grashgar spat.

"Couldn't let you two down there, though, could they?" Ghuribal snickered.

The Uruks cackled darkly, and Grashgar replied, "Bitch wouldn't last out the hour."

* * *

It felt like the most hideous hangover Tara had ever had. Exhausted, weak, and confused, Tara opened her eyes to dim, ruddy light and a dank earth and rock cell. She tried to jump up but her body rebelled with cruel ache and limp limbs. Panicked through her guts, Tara clawed herself to her side and gazed in horror at where she'd been put.

The very bowls of Orthanc had been turned into a catacomb of winding tunnels. The ravenous forges at the mid-levels baked the entire massive dungeon. The Uruks slept in groups at the top level, perhaps fifty to a carved out bullpen, issued rough wool blankets alone. All manners of industry that could be turned to war were represented in the catacombs, but at the very bottom, several hundred feet below the surface where the cold crept in, were three hundred and fifty small cells barred with iron gates. On this level were twenty other rooms full of terrible metal utensils—surgical in design—that glowed faintly with Saruman's spells. These rooms led to the five levels above that were full of slimy, pockmarked incubators, roughly the size of the largest of the Uruk-hai. Tara was on the bottom level, one row up from the floor, in a cramped barred cell. A pair of shackles hung threateningly from the wall, a slop bucket sat miserably across the small floor. Horrific screams and sobs rang out from all around her, accompanied by heavy animalistic grunting and the gut-turning sound of flesh slapping rhythmically against flesh. The meager torchlight cast ghoulish shadows over the underground hall, and Tara couldn't see—from where she was—across to the other side.

Suddenly a figure appeared on the stone catwalk on other side of the bars. Tara screamed. To her shame, she felt a warm trickle on her leg, much more fluid and acrid than the blood.

But it was not one of the monsters, it was a middle-aged woman! Tara tried to get up but she dropped as soon as she pushed on her arms. The woman responded with laughter. "Gave ye a little too much _akrum_, did ee? And was havin a pretty good go at yer before, not that ye knew it."

Tara's eyes focused on the woman. She was dressed in tatters, layers and layers of ripped dresses whose color long ago merged into a dingy grey. Her hair was strangely matted, dozens of thick, greying twists. No matter: she was _human._ "Let me out of here," Tara croaked. "Quickly, before they come back."

The woman hooted with laughter. "Oh yer a pisser!" She bent down, shoved a bowl of slop under the iron gate, and then righted herself and set her hands on her hips. "Poor dearie, dunna ye know? Only one way outter this place, and that be the supper pot."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Tara demanded, hysterical now. "What the fuck does that _mean?_"

The crone-like woman gripped the bars and shook at them mockingly, then laughed more. "What do ye think, dearie? When they done fucking ye, and ye can't give em no more imps, yer good for nothing but the butcher!"

Tara gaped for a moment as the cackling hag walked on, disappearing from view. Then she crumpled up on the floor, and covered her face, and screamed until her throat was raw. The only answer was the misery and the terror of the faceless, nameless women doomed with her. Tara screamed, and then she sobbed, until she was exhausted and empty of tears. And then she lay on her back and stared at the harshly carved ceiling and thought, _I absolutely _refuse_ to die here._


	7. Chapter 7

Though there was no way for Tara to tell time, it took an excruciating long while for her to gather the strength, then drag herself to the gate of her cell. She was near swooning, so she lay her cheek against the cold iron bars, breathing hard, forced to close her eyes. She began to pick out sounds over the screaming. A harsh conversation in a brute tongue between a high and low male voice. Laughter and talk between two more of them, deep voices, walking down the hall then fading away. There _was_ a way out, it seemed, though Tara still wasn't sure she hadn't died consigned to eternal torture for her thievery, as Osgiliath's old constable had promised.

Osgiliath: did it even stand still? Was this what heartbreak felt like?

Tara forced those thoughts away. She'd have to find a way out of this place, and she wouldn't do it crying over what she'd lost. But the thoughts wouldn't go away, and the image—and _feeling—_of the giant beast on top of her kept kicking her in the chest. Tara bit her lip until she tasted blood, furiously wiping her tears away. She concentrated hard on _sounds_, until she heard a quiet keening that seemed to come from right beside her.

"He—Hey!" Tara tried, but the weeping just carried on, and Tara became desperate and furious. "Hey! I'm _talking_ to you! Shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up! Stop crying and listen to me! Oh, please, please, say _something_ to me!"

Silence, and then a small voice with a northern accent: "Hello?"

Tara's heart jumped into her throat. "Hey! Hi! My name is Tara, I'm from Osgiliath! Who are you? How long have you been here?"

Tara almost wept at how long it took the woman to respond. But finally, "My name is Tierney. I am—was—from a village in the Westmark." Tierney started to sob again, and Tara thumped her forehead softly against the iron bars.

"Is there any way _out_ of here?" Tara demanded, pressed up against the cold, unmovable iron.

"No way… This is all it is… You are new?"

_Obviously! _"Yes! Please! Tell me what you know!"

The woman moaned painfully. "Nothing to know… The Uruks get you pregnant, and in a month—three if you were a maid, or are small—they'll take the… the _thing_ out of you, and throw you back in your cell. And over and over again, until you die of it…"

Tara dug her nails into her palms. "There has to be a way!" she cried.

"Hush, please! Talk like that… they won't kill you but you'll wish they did!" The woman began to sob again, and Tara almost screamed. Tierney wouldn't talk again.

But then she heard a call, from perhaps two or three cells down: "Tara! Tara, it's Mela! Where are you?"

"Mela!" Tara shouted, her heart swelling to hear a familiar voice. "Are you all right?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, MEAT!" a voice called, the same as the high voice in the argument. The slamming of a door came next, and the high voice turned sycophantic. So: the whiny beast was the jailer, but the authority lay with the newcomer. His heavy footfalls resonated up the stairs, striking a memory of terror in Tara's guts, and she dragged herself to the back of her cell, her heart beating so fast she thought she'd die. Then the beast—the _Uruk_, Tierny had called it—appeared before Tara's cell. Tara began to shake despite herself. He had returned for her, and from the look in his eyes and the horrific rise in his ragged black kilt, he had but one purpose. He stuck a key in the lock of her cell. Then the creature said something inaudible to the jailer—a smaller, far uglier version of big fierce monster—and passed him the key.

_The key_. Tara couldn't take her eyes off of it, not even as her tormenter opened the door and stepped in. The hideous little one locked the door behind the Uruk and slunk away, and Tara locked her eyes to the floor. _I don't have to look at him. _There was no weapon she could grab, no fight she could give in her weakened state, but she didn't have to see him. She heard wood scraping dirty stone, and then the beast crouched beside her. There was a heavy primative male scent to him, and a rumbling in his breath that frightened Tara to no end. She wanted to scoot away farther, but what difference would it make? Slowly, she drew her injured body into itself, and wrapped her arms around her bent knees.

"_Amul… ambal,_" the Uruk purred. The bowl of gruel passed under Tara's vision, and her stomach growled violently. "Eat."

Tara couldn't help herself: she reached out and smacked the bowl away.

"Stupid _tarka_," the Uruk hissed. "Better for me now. No wait."

Tara sucked a gasp through her teeth, no longer caring that it was futile: she dragged herself away from him, then raised her arms to shield her face and body. As she had guessed, it made little difference, the Uruk simply grabbed her ankle and pulled her away from the wall. Tara cried out as her back hit the floor. He was already on her, slamming inside her as if her body's resistance was nothing. Bile rose to her lips again and pain flooded her eyes with fog and tears. The Uruk thrusted fiercely from the beginning, and it hurt so much that Tara felt her mind slipping away as her screams echoed in her ears.

But somehow, she thought of Tierney sobbing beside her, of Mela frightened close-by. And how many other women were here, trapped in the dank darkness and horror? As limp as she was, the monster hadn't bothered to pin her. Tara clamped her hands over her mouth, smothering her own screams, battling to swallow them. _Fuck you, _she thought, _fuck you, no more, you get no more of my cries… _Gritting her jaw beneath her hands—even as she gasped at the hurt in her body—Tara flashed hate-filled eyes to her attacker. Tara claimed some shred of dignity knowing that the other women wouldn't hear her screaming and crying. But it took all the strength she had. She thought she'd vomit through her fingers from the violence and pain, and the Uruk's face was more than terrifying: his lips were sneered to show his fangs and his eyes were glowing in his face, the pupils predatory slits of black in a green-amber orb. He was panting, and a low growl rumbled from his stomach. But a moment after she stared viciously in his face he slammed himself inside her so deep her belly burned, and then, staring down at her with something that looked like surprise, he shuddered above her for a long moment. Disgusted to know what he was doing, Tara snapped her gaze away, hot tears rising in her eyes to think of what the result would certainly be.

It took forever for him to finish. Shaking, small rocking motions, as if he would savor every last bit. But then he was off of her. Tara didn't care how bad it hurt; she dug her fingernails against the hard cold floor, splitting them as she pulled herself away from him and buried her face in her arms. She sensed him over her for a long moment, and then she heard him bark something to the jailer, and the lock spinning, and the iron clang. Tara let out a silent, shuddering sob. He was gone.

Outside the cell, Ushatar shuddered again and leaned up against the wall.

"Too much for you?" the jailer laughed in Black Speech.

Ushatar rubbed his hands over his face and shivered again. He rolled his raptor gaze to the jailer and grinned. "You have no fucking idea. It's like… fuck, I don't even have a word _for_ it."

"Like battle, sir?" the Lesser Orc asked anxiously, rumbling his palms together.

_Like coming home from it,_ Ushatar thought, _and snuggling into a den, and hearing yourself breath to know you are alive, and something so much more that has no name I know,_ but that made no fucking sense either, so Ushatar just laughed and trampled down the steps.


	8. Chapter 8

Ushatar jumped to his feet a moment after waking, his body bristling at the roars around him. What had started out as a fight between three Uruks—Dolpan and Grashghar and the Uruk Nuk that Dolpan had decided to rape—quickly turned into a free-for-all once Nuk's blood was spilled. The cramped darkness of the bullpen became a riot of fangs and claws, fists and elbows as a full half of the fifty imprisoned Uruks jumped in for a taste. A week ago Ushatar would have joined in, for there was no battle and nothing better to do. Now all he wanted was to run down to the bowels of Isengard and see his female. He pressed his back to the wall and slunk around to the gate, trying to avoid getting dragged into the fight. For a moment the hot, heavy scent of Uruk blood caught him, and it was as if a Voice not his own was egging him on, telling him to jump in. But the Voice's urging wasn't nearly strong enough, and Ushatar banged his fist on the iron bars.

"Pop the fucking gate, Ghazar!"

The nasty little _snaga_ sauntered slowly over, dangling the keys, licking his lips. A heavy warrior fell backwards into Ushatar, his face clawed, his eye torn out, his belly opened. Ushatar growled fiercely but stepped to the side, letting the Uruk fall. "Open the gate you slimy shitbag!" Ushatar screamed.

"Eh, why spoil the show? Wassa matter Ushatar? Heart's gone soft? Don't ye wanna bite for breakfast?"

"Cock's gone hard, now open the fucking gate or when I get out I'll tear _your_ fucking guts out for my breakfast!"

"All right, all right," Ghazar said, knowing he couldn't get away with it much longer. "That's right, yer the special _pizurk_ gets to act like an officer in the pits." Ghazar fumbled with the keys, taking a deliberately long time as his eyes greedily devoured the sight of the monstrous, bullying half-breeds tearing each other apart. He slowly stuck the key in and spun the lock, then pulled the reinforced gate back. Ushatar leaped out on his toes, giving Ghazar a brutal shove as fifteen Uruks—muscles slicked with black blood—tumbled out into the hallway. The Uruks in the other bullpens were hollering and screaming and roaring, and those who had snuck in a little plunder for their own selves, a high crime in Isengard, were now laying bets on who'd win and who'd die.

"_ENOUGH!"_

Rakhan's voice boomed down the hallway. As a lieutenant now, he'd been afforded the luxury of a single cell, and it was his unlucky task to restore order to his blood-crazed privates.

"What happened?" Rakhan asked as Ushatar tried to slip by unnoticed.

"Fuck if I know," Ushatar replied, watching as his penmates slowly broke apart, all with varying degrees of injuries. It was a marvel how relatively quickly they obeyed the command of an officer. "Why the Master puts us fifty to a pen I'll never understand."

"Because you're nothing," Rakhan said. "Tear yourselves apart, what does it matter? There are five hundred more ready to be pulled from the birthing pits this week. But my question for _you_, Ushatar Shit-Starter, is why are you so clear-eyed and calm this morn? Usually you're the one getting pulled off the pile, still hanging on by your teeth."

"Better things to do, sir," Ushatar said with a boasting grin. "You know. Five hundred empty pits to fill."

Rakhan chuckled. "All by yourself?"

"Working on it, sir."

"Keep that clear head, _pizurk_, and you might make an officer before long. Get yourself some chow."

Ushatar stopped for a piss at the latrine, then scooted off to the mess hall, enticed by the scent of roasting meat. Of course, the fresh Man-flesh from the battle was only shared with the grunts on the homeward march. In Isengard, it was reserved for the officers. But there were always plenty Uruks dying from festering wounds, illness, and of course attacks by their pen-mates. There was deer sometimes too, and chicken, and other indeterminable animals that were not quite as filling as the other meats, but good enough. And often enough, the more stringy, used up meat of dead breeders went into the pot. The massive bodies of the Uruk-hai were expensive engines, and meat was one of the few things Saruman couldn't cut corners with if he expected a powerful army. Ushatar fell into the long line, famished, impatient for the _snaga_ mess worker to pass him a steaming bowl of gruel with thick cuts of meat laid over the top. Ushatar popped a strip of flesh into his mouth, then carried his bowl of to find an empty spot on the floor.

Suddenly he felt a chill on the back of his neck, the approach of an enemy. He turned around to see Dolpan leering at him. The Uruk—named for the bull he was built like—was powerful but smaller than Ushatar. Always at his back was the insane Uruk Grashghar, who was poking his fingers in the fresh clawmarks over his barreled chest, grinning at the pain he caused himself. A low growl rumbled in Ushatar's throat and his eyes darted around to the armed officers and _snaga_ orcs keeping peace in the hall.

Dolpan sauntered across the floor. "What was that you said to the lieutenant, Ushatar? Making trouble for me?"

"I don't give a fuck about you, Dolpan. He asked what started the fight. I don't know, I don't care what started it."

Dolpan grinned savagely. "Oh yes, that's right… You've got your little toy downstairs to think about. Don't know how you managed that… Getting cozy with the officers, getting sent to the pit… You're moving up in the world, newborn. Make sure you don't forget your _pizurk_ brothers when you go."

"Yeah, no problem. I gotta go now."

Dolpan stretched his arm out with mocking politeness. "Go on! You have important business for the Master."

Ushatar backed away, keeping his eyes on Dolpan. Ushatar could sense the rankor coming off the powerful warrior, and he wasn't sure what he'd done to cause it. He didn't believe Dolpan's excuse: if Ushatar had squealed to Rakhan, blaming Dolpan for the fight, the Master would have ordered Dolpan sent in the empty blackness of the _dar-danghum. _But it seemed Dolpan quickly forgot about Ushatar. The bull Uruk slapped Grashghar on the back and belted out a high laugh, then squatted down with some of his comrades to devour his meal.

Ushatar squatted against the rough stone wall. The din of a thousand coarse conversations echoed around him, yelling, cackling, roaring in impotent anger: fights in the mess were punished severely, because it interfered with order. Today Ushatar had no desire to joke with anyone, or bully the _snaga_. He hadn't lied to Ghazar, he wanted to fuck, he'd been bred to a sex drive far higher than a Man's. And of course Ushatar was lured compulsively by the scent of her.

But he also wanted, strangely, _quiet._ An odd thing had happened with the female the night before, and Ushatar couldn't forget about it. He'd never known a female _not_ to scream and cry, but this one had met his eyes in defiance, and when she had, and their eyes had locked with Ushatar deep inside her, everything had gone silent. The moaning and wailing and grunting, the screaming and sobbing, the constant roaring of the forge-fires and the barking orders… It had all muffled, drowned down in the female's liquid grey eyes. All Ushatar wanted was to get back into that warm, quiet place.

He reached for the last strip of meat to sop in his gruel, but his hand froze. The female—she'd had nothing but the bowl of watery gruel, and she'd thrown that away in anger. Ushatar had no experience with breeding, but his instinct told him that it was a hungry business. So he surreptitiously tucked the strip away into a fold of his ragged black tunic, downed the rest of his gruel, and jumped to his feet.

He had no idea that Dolpan was staring at him still, his feral eyes wide with malicious wonder.

* * *

Two monsters so far had _the key._

Throughout the long, hungry, hurting night, Tara had thought of nothing but _the key._ The crazy witch had come to empty the slop-bucket a while ago, but she didn't have the key, she had to wait for the little whining Orc to let her in. Tara had tried again to make some sort of connection with the older woman, hope rising desperately only to be cruelly dashed by the witch's cackles and wild eyes. If there had once been any humanity in the older woman, it was long gone. And at any rate, the witch might be useful for extra food—Tierney had whispered that to Tara in the depths of the night—but she wouldn't be able to set Tara free.

This left only the Orc and the big Uruk. The first, the Orc, rarely passed down the catwalk. On the rare chance he looked at Tara, she saw that in his eyes she was less than nothing. Just another breeder on her way into the supper pot who had nothing at all to offer him. But Tara would rather find some way to bargain with him, because she couldn't even think about the Uruk without breaking into tremors. And it was unlikely _he'd_ release her, he who had the most to gain by keeping her as some foul cross between a whore and a brood mare.

Tara forced herself to stand. Her legs were weak and shaking and it hurt to take the smallest of steps, but she was determined to get to the gate and have a look at her prison. But as soon as she made it to the bars she heard the heavy door slam, and then the voice she'd never get out of her nightmares if she lived a thousand years. Her legs buckled and she fell to the ground just as the big Uruk reached the gate.

The humiliation of it all was almost as bad as the pain he caused her. Tara clung to the scraps of her dignity, though she was sick and panicked, and covered in her own blood and piss. Her fingers clawed at the sheepskin of her new coat, to pull the edges of it over her body as much as possible. The sound of the spinning lock was enough to steal her sanity, and she felt herself melting under the hot stare of the monster.

"_Bolk-igz niin. Shaplag-to, globurzta," _hissed the Uruk, haughty command in his voice.

There was a moment of silence, as if whatever he had said was startling.

"_Snak! Snak, pushdug!"_

Tara listened to the stamping of feet in quick-time. The Orc returned with a sloshing bucket of water and Tara's parched mouth ached. She closed her eyes, sensing the Uruk entering her cage, squatting down beside her. A hand as hard as iron cupped under her jaw, and no matter how hard she resisted, he was able to turn her face.

"Open your eyes, _tarka. _Look at me."

Tara shook her head tightly, as much as it would move in his grasp. An inquisitive finger brushed over her mouth, and she heard water trickling. His other hand—cupped full of water—came to her chapped lips, and Tara was helpless against drinking, no matter how she hated it.

"Hungry now?"

Tara remained in stubborn silence, but when she smelled warm meat in his hand a little sob escaped her. She opened her eyes and snatched the meat, devouring it even though tears ran down her face, for she knew not what she ate. She chanced a quick, blurry glance at the Uruk and found him dipping a rag in the bucket, then ringing it out. He pulled up her bloody dress and Tara backed away from him in instant terror.

"You're filthy. You get sick like that. Die."

"So what?" she asked, glaring at the floor.

A pause, and then, "Do it yourself, or I'll do it to you. But you're washing up."

"I… I can do it myself."

The monster came closer and plunked the bucket down beside her, handed her the rag. Her face burning with helpless fury and shame, Tara snatched the rag from his hand and turned her back to him. She found she was glad to wash, even if the amount of dried, caked blood on her thighs was horrifying. But when she rang out the rag for the last time, hard hands set on her shoulders and he brought her down to the floor. The water and food gave Tara new strength, and she slapped and punched the Uruk. It was as futile as before. He was inside her almost before she could take a breath, and she cried out desperately before remembering her vow: she would not give him her screams, and she didn't want the other women to hear her shame. Tara clamped her hand over her own mouth and turned her face away, biting her fingers against the hideous pain, hot, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

* * *

"I need a blanket, Ghuribal."

"Getting chilly in the bullpen?" Ghuribal laughed, looking up from his inventory list. "I know a couple of _baalaku_ who'd keep you nice and warm."

"Stupid _snaga,_ not for me, for my female!"

Ghuribal shook his pinched head. "No blankets for the breeders. They either make it or they don't. Why should it matter to you?"

"I don't want her to die on me," Ushatar said, leaning on his heavy arms on the table. Ushatar took a peek at the list of raw materials: iron, timber, livestock, and bolts of cheap cloth.

Ghuribal sucked his rotten teeth to keep the malevolent grin off his face. "Gonna build her a hut too?"

"What—? Listen, miserable rat, I want a blanket. I gave you a scalp. Sounds a little more than fair for you."

"Ushatar, now I'm hurt! I thought the scalp was a token of your adoration."

"I have nothing, Ghuribal. I took the female instead of hiding plunder up my ass like Grashghar. But I swear to you, next time I go to battle, I'll bring you a heap of silver."

"You're lucky I like you, youngling," Ghuribal growled. He disappeared beneath the wooden counter, popping up moments later with a rough wool blanket. "You'd better be careful, Ushatar," Ghuribal murmured. "You roared at me when I asked to fuck the girl—No, don't start getting hot again!—and now you're begging contraband to keep her warm. The only thing you should be thinking about is ringing out your cock inside her, and giving the Master whelps. Don't let nobody see you feathering her nest, you understand me? These metal-minded demons will tear you to pieces for it."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Ushatar replied, tucking the blanket under his arm. "Just don't want her to die off, maybe I don't get to get a new one."

Ghuribal arched one pierced eyebrow, studying the Uruk. He shook his head as the Uruk walked away. "Sure, Ushatar," Ghuribal muttered. "Poor half-breed bastard, he don't even know what he's doin'."


	9. Chapter 9

"Can you reach my hand?"

"No," Tierney whimpered.

Tara frowned and stretched her arm out a little farther, the iron bars pressing hard into her flesh. She kept her eyes on the jailer, snoozing beneath her tier. "C'mon, you're not even trying! Touch my hand, Tierney!"

"What _for?_" the girl asked, a sob in her throat.

"Just to see if we can, dammit!" Tara hissed. At her anger, the girl from the Westmark went dead silent. Tara closed her eyes, shaking with misery, refusing to let herself shut down like Tierney. "Look, it's okay, that piece of shit is sleeping. Touch my hand…" Tara bit her lips, then asked, "Are you hungry?"

The muffled response was affirmative and plaintive.

Tara drew her arm painfully back into her cell and hurried over to the blanket that the Uruk had left her. For the past three days, each time he came—two, three, four times a day—he'd brought her a little meat and a strange gift: the blanket, a cup for water, and bizarrely, even a bone comb for her tangled black hair. Each morning he demanded water for her washing, and he filled the cup full for her before she fouled the water. It made no difference to how he treated her when he got on top of her: he was a vicious brute with fast, snapping hips, and Tara threw up more often than not when he climbed off her. But she was beginning to wonder, might the Uruk be the one she could get the key from after all?

Tierney had told her that she had nothing at all in her cell, and Tara could hear her crying for cold and hunger at night. What was the meaning of the gifts? And was it possible that he would relax enough around her to keep the key with him, somewhere where Tara might snatch it? As ludicrous as that was—for how would he get out again?—it was the closest thing Tara had to hope. Without hope, she'd be a pile of misery like her neighbor. And Mela further down had stopped speaking entirely.

Tara reached under the blanket and pulled out a slice of meat—a cross between bacon and jerky, of unknown and terrifying source—and ripped it in half. Then she returned to the gate and stuck her arm back out. "If you can reach my hand, I've got a mouthful of meat for you. But you have to try!"

"How'd you get meat?"

"The beast brought it! Come on now, reach for it!"

When Tierney's fingers brushed Tara's, Tara wept silently for wild joy simply for contact with a _human _who hadn't turned evil like the demons. "Good, Tierney, good! You see? You can do it!"

After swallowing the meat whole Tierney demanded, "But what's the point, Tara? We still can't get out!"

"I don't know yet," Tara hissed back, "But at least it's something."

* * *

_Shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up you _shaatazu _bastards!_

Ushatar rubbed his temples, knowing that the snarling and fighting, the gambling and even fucking would go on well into the night. Had it ever bothered him before? He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, sleeping how he did every night: sitting up, facing forward. Tonight would be more dangerous, because there were ten newborns in place of the morning's casualties. Ushatar had watched them discreetly, just as he had Dolpan and Grashghar. Even now as he rested, his ears were alert. Ushatar had a small contraband blade—close to needing replacement, tucked into the braids of his long, showy mohawk hairstyle. Using it would mean a trip to the _dar-danghum_, as weapons were forbidden in Isengard outside of drilling, so it was worth it only in a severe case.

He had sensed no ill will off Dolpan tonight, and Grasghar was Dolpan's _loburz_, his bitch, who'd never make a move without Dolpan's say so. Nuk was the one to worry most about: Dolpan had made it well known he'd finished the job inside of Nuk, and the scrawny Uruk's eyes were darting about all unhinged and wild. At sudden snarls, Ushatar thumped his head softly against the wall, wondering what the fuck Gharibal had meant when he had teased Ushatar about a hut, a _dar_, for the woman. It sounded great.

"Start fighting and your fucking tongues will get torn out, Six!" Rakhan roared from his own cell. Because he now had high command, whatever he said was surely backed up by the Master. The snarls wore down—reluctantly—to rumbles.

The next morning brought a hard workout that cut into chow time, as if Rakhan was either furious about the disruption to his own sleep, or deliberately wearing them down. Afterwards, Ushatar lingered when he returned his weapons to Ghuribal. Once the rest of his platoon jogged towards the mess hall, Gharibal mocked, "Need a bone needle and some hides?"

"Why the fuck—? No. I want another knife. And I don't have anything now, but you know I'm good for it. Again."

"Making enemies, half-breed?"

"Full blooded Uruk-hai! You wanna see my cock, _snaga_?"

Ghuribal laughed. "_Snaga,_ they call us. If you were from the Misty Mountains, as I am, you'd had your white-skin in your own _dar_, and you'd teach your own whelps to hunt and kill."

"You're here just like me, shit-talker!" Ushatar laughed, brushing Ghuribal off. After a moment though, Ushatar couldn't help asking, "Is that how you lived? Like a Man?"

"Not like a Man. Like an Orc, in a _dar_ my mate and I built with our own hands. Much you don't know, _baalak._" Ghuribal slipped the knife aross the counter, but when Ushatar made to grab it, Ghuribal seized his wrist. "Master gets word I talked like this—or worse, that you're thinking like it—we're both gonna wish we were never born. When this whole thing started up, plenty Uruks wanted to live as the Orcs talked about. They were tortured, then hung up with nails as a warning to the others. Now you are bred to forget, but sometimes things slip through."

"Things?" Ushatar demanded, uneased but unable to shake the powerful image out of his mind. He would lay in wolf furs with his female at night, and not hear a fucking sound but the wind.

Ghuribal looked as if he was reading Ushatar's thoughts. "That comb wasn't for you, youngling, neat as you keep that fussy Uruk mane. It'd be a bad mistake to get caught giving a fuck about the breeder, Ushatar, even if it's trying to keep her nice for yourself. Way they see it up top, you're lucky enough to be _fucking_, and if they could find a way to make Uruks without that, they'd do it. She isn't yours, Ushatar. She's the Master's."

"She's _mine_," Ushatar growled low.

At the sound of one hundred jogging warriors Ghuribal released Ushatar's wrist. Ushatar secreted his new blade under his arm and stalked away.


	10. Chapter 10

She'd done it again last night: met his eyes. And Ushatar fell a little deeper into them, into her, and she was quiet.

He'd had the craziest feeling that she wasn't only just defying him this time—though she did that—but _searching_ him. Sizing something up. Ushatar had stayed up half the night wondering what she'd been looking for. Some sign he'd let her out? He'd thought: surely she knows what's in store for her.

Suddenly frozen, Ushatar felt sick, for he'd never considered her future himself until that moment.

They were going to cut _Tarka_ up and hand out slices of her over gruel, maybe even his own. He spent the rest of the night shutting every thought out, every sound, even the dangers of his pen. Ushatar woke in the morning ready to break down the enormous iron gate but he lay still, quivering. There was nowhere to go anyway, nothing to do but wait for mess or drill, and then he was duty-bound to run downstairs and fill the female's belly. He wondered how whatever he put in her would get into the pits above the breeding floor. He wondered if he'd know his own whelp, when it was pulled out fully grown. He wondered if he'd kill it in a fight, or eat it when it got sick or took too bad a wound.

The gate popped and Ushatar jumped up. His penmates cheered a little: chow instead of a hard workout. Ushatar didn't want to eat, but he had to gather food for her. It was an instinct as hard as drinking or breathing now, to bring her food.

Carrying the thickly cut bacon, he hustled down the long stairways and through the dark tunnels of Isengard. Every so often an armed, silent _snaga_—Orc—would stand sentinel in a dark corner. The officers weren't expected to make trouble on their way to the breeding floor.

The last thing Ushatar thought before a club hit the side of his face was that those few guards were gone.

* * *

Consciousness flickered, then sparked, and Ushatar roared with black rage. His arms were pinned by two Uruks, and his legs too, and there was something hard—a knee?—in his back. Hot meaty breath rushed against him. "Wake-up, fucker," Dolpan hissed, and then he rammed his cock inside.

The stab of pain made lights flash behind Ushatar's eyes, and he roared again, thrashing violently, blind with fury. For a long while he was helpless, flailing and screaming in useless rage, listening to Dolpan hiss and groan and call him weak _loburz_.

But Ushatar wouldn't stop trying, and when he saw he couldn't buck and thrash his way out, he went still for a moment, enduring the humiliation and the brutal pain. As soon as he felt the slightest release of tension he wrenched his right hand free. He swung with all his strength at the Uruk on his left arm, slashing open the vital veins on his throat. Ushatar launched himself up and back on his arms, throwing all of his weight and strength to the floor behind him. Dolpan cracked his head but clung like a wild wolf. Ushatar jumped up and slammed him back into the wall, sandwiching another attacker. Then he bit as hard as he could, ripping flesh from Dolpan's arm. Suddenly, Dolpan's weight was gone. Ushatar whirled to face him, but the three other Uruks—Grashghar and two unschooled newborns—closed in on him. Ushatar backed up, eyeing them steadily. As soon as they crossed the imaginary line of Ushatar's perimeter, he savagely kicked one newborn into the wall, cracking his skull open. He pulled his knife and stabbed Grashghar in the windpipe and snapped the neck of the second newborn. Ushatar jumped against the wall, his eyes wild in the darkness of the tunnel. Four weak fools were dead, but Dolpan was gone.

Panting, Ushatar began to feel his injuries. His head pounded, and Dolpan had clawed his shoulder to shreds. And down below—Ushatar's legs were slick with blood. He clenched his hands to fists, then sunk to floor, shaking with fierce, merciless shame. He hoped against hope that Dolpan hadn't come inside him, Ushatar thought he'd die for certain if that had happened. He didn't realize he was groaning softly, rocking slightly as he sat.

_Snap out of it! _Ushatar thought brutally. Disgusted, he ran his hands roughly between his thighs, and down his calves, scraping the black blood off, smearing it on the wall and floor. When he first tried to stand his lower region defied him, and Ushatar felt a flash of terror that Dolpin had broken him. It made him leap up and start to jog. _I'm a fucking Uruk-hai warrior! _Ushatar commanded himself to remember._ I do not feel pain!_

Yet he was reeling in horror that he'd been emasculated, owned, fucked by a more dominant male. _Loburz, _he thought, breaking to a walk, grabbing his face, clawing at his skull as if he could take it all away.

* * *

Tara struggled to master her shaking breath. For some reason, the Uruk was standing across the cell, leaning on the wall. He'd not called for water, _niim_, in his language. He stood motionless, his breath ragged. Finally, Tara looked up. She was surprised to see a great, inky black bruise on the side of his face, and a long cut on his cheek. His already ragged tunic was further shreaded at one shoulder, with deep wounds underneath. She met his amber-green eyes, and somehow there was _horror_ in those predatory depths.

It was a mistake. The moment she met his gaze he dropped to his knees and crawled fast to her, pushing her down, wrenching at her skirt, pushing up her knees. He snatched at her face, a thumb on one cheek his fingers laid on the other. Tara closed her eyes and grit her teeth as one fierce thrust put him deep in her belly. He drove at her again and again, slow and deep, and Tara struggled to let her body go numb, to disassociate with herself as if there was some small part of her she could keep from him.

Then his mouth was in her ear, and he moaned harshly, "Look at me, look at me, _tarka…_ Look at me…"

Shocked, Tara realized that he wanted to see her furious eyes. She clenched them tight and turned her head, and his hand released her. His thrusting was getting faster now, and his breath was coming hard, but something was odd about it. Usually she heard his rumbling growls. Now she heard something much harsher, but quieter… almost like the roughness of a man's hidden weeping. He hissed the word again and again: _tarka, tarka, tarka-izub…_

Tara gasped aloud as his teeth grazed and bit down in the hollow of her neck. Her short, hard sobs muffled against his shoulder. His teeth burned and stung and sent spasms down her spine, and she panicked that he'd tear her throat out, and she'd bleed to death on the floor of this hell.

Then the pressure left—he'd let go—and the Uruk breathed, "No fear" against her bloody, aching neck. His mouth returned to Tara's throat, only as a warmth, catching her blood, grazing her with his teeth but never biting again. Tara looked to the pitted floor overhead, tears rolling down her cheeks, but not anymore because of the bite. She didn't understand why it felt like he'd stolen into that last secret place and laid it bare, or why every hurt, and every sorrow, seemed to be bleeding out of her. The Uruk's hands pushed higher up her dress for the first time, cupping her small hard breasts, sweeping back over the curve in her waist, sliding a palm over her belly. Then the strong, dark arms wrapped around her, forbidding her escape, and the Uruk came hard inside her.

He clung to Tara as she lay on the floor sobbing in silence, her body throbbing, trying to make sense of the frighteningly unfathomable thing that had just happened.


	11. Chapter 11

Ushatar didn't want to let go of her. He didn't want to think past his next breath. He knew the world was falling down around him. The weight of the Tower was burying Ushatar, there would be hell to pay upstairs, there would be hell in his mind now that he'd been polluted by Dolpan. But if he only didn't think at all, if he only held _Tarka_, he'd be all right. After pulling out, he'd rolled her on her side, pulled her back up against his chest where she'd be warm, where he could drown himself in the sharp scent of her unwashed hair.

She was shaking so damn _bad_, though. He wished she wouldn't. _But how can she be anything _but_ terrified?_

_It's not the same thing,_ Ushatar told himself bitterly. This little girl could never possibly think of herself as dominant over Ushatar; it was only natural that she'd get fucked by him, since he was the dominant one around her. Wouldn't Men do the same?

He heard her breath catch, like she was trying to make herself not cry.

_Of course, she knows where she is. She knows what will happen to her. And… and the _dar_ of stone I found her in had no bars. Men are free to come and go, not like us._

_I wish I could let her come and go, from our own _dar. _I wish I could protect her when they finally come to take her away. But I am _snaga_, slave, worse than the Orcs because I don't even have memories of being free. _

Ushatar groaned and held his _Tarka_ tighter. She strained a little, turned her head down. She reached her fingers down to her thighs and brought her hand up over his arms, examining her wet fingertips. It wasn't only her own red blood—which was hardly running for some reason today—but Ushatar's black blood staining her thighs and fingers. He drew a tight breath and his heart began to pound, but she gave no sign she knew of his shame. She stopped crying and lay still in his arms, as if she was simply waiting for him to decide what to do with her. Ushatar let his cheek rest against her hair and stared at the iron bars that were so ordinary to him. _It is still quiet with her,_ he thought,_ even just laying here. How long can I stay here, hiding from it? How much time can I steal?_

The female couldn't strain against him any longer. First she had gone quiet, and now she let her muscles loose, and Ushatar closed his eyes.

Finally, after a long while, he had to let go. If he waited too much longer and missed the afternoon roll-call they'd simply come for him, and he didn't want them coming into her cell. Even if it was the last time he saw her. How many Uruks would Dolpin have hunting him? When would the blow come? Would he be able to defeat it?

_I will kill Dolpan if I can, if it's the last thing I do,_ Ushatar determined. He disentangled his arms from his female, then swept her knotted black hair away from her bloody neck. Without understanding his need, he pressed his mouth to that bitten spot. She cringed, and he smoothed his hand down her arm, and breathed in her ear, "Brush your hair, _Tarka_, you'll get bugs and mats in it."

Ushatar grit his teeth and forced himself to stand. He realized that he'd not brought her any meat. He must have lost it in the—the fight—and then forgotten about it. He looked down on her; she was still staring ahead to the bars. She wouldn't give him her eyes. "When I come back, I want to wash up the mark I made on you. Keep it clean so you don't get sick. I'll bring you some food later if I can," he swore, and then he walked to the gate and shouted for the jailer, forcing himself not to look back at her, because if he did, he'd never leave.

With heavy steps, Ushatar passed through the tunnels where he had been—where the fight had happened—and climbed the many flights of stairs. The pain in his backside and shoulder grew with each step. Once he got to the top he whipped his eyes around, searching for Dolpan, or any odd looks or movements. Uruks were running in from drilling, a company was going out for a raid. More were going out to chop trees. Ushatar, tensed for battle, walked forward.

At that moment, two Uruks, officers by their unripped tunics and better sandals, approached him. Ushatar couldn't help starting to crouch low, wondering how the hell Dolpan could have gotten to officers.

The officers sneered a little at his challenge, but ignored it as beneath them. One snatched his arm, examining the identifying brands burnt into his flesh. "Ushatar 5229. You've been reported for carrying a weapon in the Tower, and sentenced to fifteen days in the _dag-darhum._ Come quiet, or we've orders to take you to see the Master."


	12. Chapter 12

Tierney was screaming.

Tara jumped up from her sleep and ran to the gate in time to see three smaller Orcs take her out, and though she screamed, she gave no fight. Tara was surprised to see what a tall, strong looking woman Tierney was: far bigger than Tara and the Orcs, though the way she hung her head told Tara that Tierney'd given up entirely.

"Where are you going?" Tara demanded. When the Orcs looked at her with surprise she glared viciously at them. "Fucking pieces of shit, where are you taking her!?"

"Whelpin' time, Mistress Uruk," one said, and then he jerked a clawed thumb at Tara and rumbled something out in his garish language that made them all howl with laughter.

Any number of foul insults gathered on Tara's tongue, but she stepped back to watch. She'd thought they were taking Tierney to be butchered. The woman didn't look the slightest bit pregnant, but Tara remembered what Tierney had said: they took the thing after a month.

_Dammit, how many do they need? _Tara wondered, and then she knew her answer immediately: enough to destroy the world of Men. _Damned if _I_ contribute to that,_ Tara thought, sitting down angrily.

Four days had passed—measured in bowls of gruel and slop bucket changes—since her own demon had come and had some sort of meltdown all over her. She pressed her fingers gingerly to the sore bite mark on the corner of her neck. Whatever that had been, it didn't seem meant to terrorize her like almost every other thing he had done. And now he was gone. Dare she hope it was some sort of beastly 'good-bye'? Even if he had sworn to return with food and water?

But now that he didn't come, and Tara didn't spend much of her day shaken in tears and rage, claustrophobia was setting in, and she had the most intense longing for _meat _she'd ever felt before. But her body was long conditioned to ignoring the gnawing hunger of her gut. She glanced around her small cell, and with nothing else to do, she picked the carved bone comb up and began the arduous task of teasing knots out of her long black hair, which was uncommonly greasy and rank.

At the sound of footsteps on the catwalk Tara looked up anxiously. But no, it wasn't _him._ The footfalls were too light for that. It was the whiny jailer Orc. Desperate for some sort of interaction, Tara flew up to the cell bars, causing the little imp to jump in surprise and nearly lose the bucket of water in his hands.

Recovering himself with fussy indignation, the jailer asked, "Gettin' lonely, white-skin? Don't look at me for a little tumble, Master took it clean off. I'm just here to clean the puke outta your neighbor's cell."

"Took your _what_ off?" Tara asked, aghast.

The Orc patted his crotch. "My balls, bitch, what do you think? The one don't work too well without the other. Master don't want no mixin' of the stock, know what I mean? Everything's gotta be labeled, studied, branded just right."

"You mean the babies—" Tara said, biting her tongue. "The _things._"

"The pups, the whelps, girlie," the Orc said, casting a wary eye into Tierney's cell, showing Tara how unpleasant his task would be. "Only they don't come out like normal. Never seen it done myself, but whatever they take out of yer neighbor, in a few weeks-" The Orc flung a clawed hand open and said, "Poof! Fully grown, fully talkin', ready to fight and die. Black magic, it is, and I don't mess around with it."

Tara frowned, struggling to make sense of what she'd been told. "You mean the bastard that brought me here… how old is he?"

"That crazy fucker? Oh…. 'Bout a year, short a few weeks. He ain't doing so well now. In the _dar-danghum,_ so I hear. Caught stabbing folks up. No weapons allowed in Isengard."

"What the fuck is a _dar…?"_

"A _dar_ is a house, a hut, like what you used to live in sorta. But in this case, it means 'place of punishment'. Never been in it myself, but it's a tight little cell with no lights and only one hole for food and water—though sometimes they forget given it, dependin' on watcha done—and ye can't move or sit or lie down."

"Fuck him," Tara spat. "Serves him right. Don't serve him _enough_, actually."

The Orc just grunted in reply, as if he didn't agree so much.

"Fuck you too! He stole me… he… I can't even _think_ about what he's done… Let him rot!"

"Don't know no better, girlie. Did what he was born to do, bred to do. But don't think for a moment I don't know he's been feeding ye from his own pot and bringin' ye little trinkets and whatnot. Could of wound up in the _dar-danghum_ for that, too, but I'm no rat, whatever else the Master made me."

"But you won't let me out of here…" Tara tried lamely.

The Orc laughed. "It'd take a good deal more than what you got to give to risk my neck _that _way. Not just my neck, either. Master…" the Orc lowered his voice, his yellow eyes darting in his grey face, as if whoever this Master was might hear him even now. "He's _dushatar._ Got powers. Make ye go crazy in yer skull. He tunes up all the boys a little tighter each time they go out for battle, makes 'em even hotter for the kill… and other things, like rippin' white-skin girls apart. But it happened once before, 'bout two years back. Girl got out. Sorry, pretty little thing, if yer thing is a _sharlob._"

Tara's eyes shot open. "You let her go? She bribed you somehow?"

"Not me! Dunno what she did fully. Was before my time. I do know what happened to the poor bastard she slipped out on, when he came to clean her cell. He thought she was chained up—she was a real bad fighter, you see, her whelper didn't want to deal with it—and she got away on him, but she musta had help from someone else, someone who ain't been caught yet."

"What happened to the jailer? Killed?"

"Ain't you been listenin', Mistress Uruk? There's things much worse than death in Isengard. Last time I saw Shruuk, he was sitting in a pile of his own shit, eatin' it and singin' to it like it was his whelps, and screamin' that the air was trying to claw him to pieces. Don't even like talkin' about it." The jailer shuddered, and then he made to walk away.

"Wait, wait! Who helped her? How'd she get out? And why the fuck does everyone keep calling me Mistress Uruk?"

"First: whoever did it ain't been caught, and I ain't trying to catch 'em. Second: well, I ain't tellin' ye all about it, but there's older things tunneling around in the earth than even Master knows about, maybe she took those dark paths. Third—" The jailer laughed, but sadly, shaking his head, "Cuz ye made him go Orc-like. Poor bastard thinks yer his mate and he don't even know it. Orcses catch mates by scent, mate for life, raise their whelps from tiny pups together. Or we did, before the Eye came callin' and the Master decided to breed an army, making Orcs into Uruks with his magic. Now no one—Orc or Uruk—can even call their dick their own, but at least we Orcs remember what it was to be free. Now I gotta clean this puke up before yer neighbor gets back."

Astonished, Tara nodded her head, and the jailer moved on. Tara stood by the bars for a long while, scanning the walls of cells as far as she could see for some sign of a tunnel. Suddenly the witch came into sight, pushing a rickety cart of gruel. As if she felt Tara's eyes on her she turned, looking up at the girl from Osgiliath with a knowing, crooked smile.


	13. Chapter 13

The lock spun and Tara's eyes flew open. Something was wrong immediately. Perhaps it was just her hunger, but though she'd been hungry before she'd never felt so weak. The old witch bumbled into the cell for the slop bucket, and Tara tried to sit up to talk to her. The witch was free to roam the pit, perhaps she'd know how the girl had escaped. But as soon as Tara sat up the cell rocked and reeled around her, and she began to wretch. With nothing to bring up but the nasty gruel from yesterday her belly burned, and she vomited green bile.

The witch started to cackle, squatting down beside her. "Ah… Breedin', eh? And none too lightly. Don't get too sick or they'll toss ye to the butcher. Sometimes the blood don't mix right, and there ain't no middy-wife fer ye."

"Water!" Tara gasped, wretching again. "Please!"

Another presence in the cell: the jailer, putting down a bucket of water, rooting around beneath Tara's blanket for the cup the Uruk had brought her. The jailer met the witch's eyes anxiously, then pressed the cup into Tara's hand.

"Slow sips," the witch said. Tara obeyed, and then she looked up, and for the first time saw _sanity_ in the woman's eyes. It took long moments for her belly to settle enough to stop the awful wretching.

"What… the fuck… is happening… to me?"

"Just like she said, Mistress Uruk," the jailer said, a touch of sadness in his voice. "That's why Master wants the big _sharlobu_, the strongest ones. Blood don't mix right, makes ye real sick."

"So they're going to fucking kill me soon?" Tara gasped.

Another exchange between the jailer and the witch. Then the jailer said, "Told ye before, girlie, I ain't no rat. They ain't took that from me yet, at least. And besides… It wouldn't do at all for Crazy to get out and find you in his gruel-bowl."

Tara's eyes burned at mention of the Uruk. "Somehow I think he'd manage to comfort himself."

"She dunna listen at all," the witch said, slapping her thighs and standing up.

"But she's a good _sharlob_, as far as _sharlobu_ go. Not a pile of misery like the others. Fucking shame, ain't it N'Mway?"

The witch grunted. "Back to work. Inspection coming soon. _Tarka,_ you'd better pull it together when the Master comes to count his breeders."

"What the fuck did you call me?" Tara demanded, bile rising again. "What the fuck does that mean, _Tarka, tarka, tarka-izub?"_

"Pet name, girlie," the jailer said. "_Tark _is slang for people of yer kind, people from the White City. _Tarka_ is like, little girl of Gondor. And _izub_… it means, 'mine'. But the thing is, and he don't seem to know it, ain't nothing _his_, not even his life."

* * *

A slot opened, a tiny stream of dim light—enough to blind Ushatar—poured through the hole. A cup of water splashed into Ushatar's face, only drops of it reaching his parched lips.

"More…" he gasped, but the reply was harsh laughter.

"They're fucking the life out of your _sharlob_, _pushdug. _Asshole and all. Gonna chop her up tonight, I heard. Maybe I'll bring you a little taste."

Ushatar's roars were deafening, but there was no power in them. Bouncing off the impossibly tight, dark cell and breaking his eardrums, his roars did nothing but send Ushatar into a desperate, impotent fury. He couldn't raise his arms to punch the walls, or even lower them to wipe up the piss and shit dripping down his legs. Locked in the _dar-daghum,_ there was nothing to do but imagine every horrific thing the nameless, faceless Uruks on the other side told him.

_It's a lie, it's a lie,_ Ushatar told himself desperately. Bad enough she was starving, bad enough no one would wash her up, bad enough he couldn't touch her. _No reason to kill her,_ he insisted. _Fucking _shaatazu _trying to torment me! Why would they tell me the truth about her?_

Unless the truth was so horrible that no lie could make it worse. No lie could torment him like that truth would. It didn't matter to Ushatar that this would doubtlessly be Tarka's fate—after that happened in a year or so, depending how strong she was, Ushatar could throw himself onto some enemy's sword and join her in death, and know nothing more of his agony. _But not yet! Please, please, if there's anything that can hear me, anything beyond this shit of a world, please don't let it be over yet!_

A month ago, had Ushatar been asked what good meant, he'd have said victory in battle, a promotion, Man-flesh on his tongue or a daughter of Men crushed beneath him. Now he knew that good was his Tarka, the way he felt with her, even though she was terrified and probably hated him…

_The way I hate Dolpan?_

No, surely not! _That_ was unnatural. _That_ was about humiliation. What he did with Tarka—at least, if he wasn't a miserable _snaga_—that was like what Ghuribal had talked about: having a mate.

Or was it?

It bothered Ushatar that Tarka hadn't really bled the last time he'd mounted her. Every other time she'd bled—he'd even felt her tearing. But not that last time, which was, for all his own pain and shame, the best time, when he'd left a mark on her—his mark—that she'd wear even into death.

_What the fuck was different about that? _

_What if she isn't supposed to bleed at all? _

Dolpan—that dead piece of shit—fucked other Uruks sometimes. In fact, more nights than not the bullpen was full of soft groaning. Sure, everyone mocked the _loburzu_ who took it in the ass by choice, but that didn't matter. What was strange was that when that happened—in the secret depths of the night, with the other Uruks pretending not to hear it even as they sometimes beat their cocks to the sound—no one bled either. Only when someone was attacked, like Nuk, like Ushatar himself, was it a bloody mess.

_I do not treat Tarka like Dolpan treated me! She bleeds because that's what _sharlobu _do! Everyone knows that! She cries because that's what _sharlobu_ do! It's expected! She is not an Uruk, not even a _loburz_ Uruk!_

Ushatar roared in miserable, helpless rage again. He couldn't make sense of his thoughts and he couldn't make them stop. He wanted quiet like the starving want food, but maybe that was gone forever too. Outside of the _dar-daghum_ five lounging Uruks belted out with cruel laughter as Ushatar's helpless screams of agony tore through the stone walls of his prison.


	14. Chapter 14

The iron door opened and Ushatar collapsed to the floor. For a moment he lay in his humiliation: weak from starvation, terrorized by helplessness, covered in his own foulness and even the dried blood from his rape. For a moment, laying before who knew how many Uruk-hai who witnessed his shame, Ushatar longed for death, having no idea how he'd pull himself to his feet, or how he'd meet the eyes of his fellows.

Then a strong clasped his thick bicep and tugged. "Come on, Ushatar," Gharsh-il said with gruff compassion. As a young _pizurk,_ Gharsh-il had endured his own stays in the _dar-daghum._ "Get the fuck up. Punishment's over and you're free to go. It's midday: get yourself some chow, and rest up for tomorrow's drilling. There's a battle coming soon for you, and I want you in top form."

Ushatar stood on shaking legs. If he didn't look up now and meet everyone's faces, he'd be targeted and ripped apart by nightfall. He drew a tight breath and raised his head, doing his best to put a hard challenge in his eyes. _They took my blades,_ he thought desperately. If he didn't replace them, he'd be dead anyway when Dolpan came for him. But how much more credit would Ghuribal be willing to extend him?

Gharsh-il pat him roughly on the back. "Come on, youngling, time to get back into life. Everything's gonna work out for you once you put your battle head back on."

Ushatar nodded, though he hardly believed it. He was desperate to ask about Tarka, but that would be to invite more shame. He followed Gharsh-il's orders and headed to the mess, but after that he would run to Ghuribal and get a knife if he could. After that… he would see if he was still on the list to get into the pits, and if he was, he'd see if Tarka lived.

_But I don't know how I'll face her. I am the same as her now, the same's been done to me, but worst of all is that I'm the one did it to her._

And then Rakhan hissed his name, the lieutenant's green eyes glowing in the darkness of the empty hallway. Ushatar felt a sudden quiver of fear, as if Dolpan was waiting there too, as if they'd both rape him. There was nothing to do but go to the officer, no matter how terrified he was. _Sharku lied,_ Ushatar thought bitterly. _He said we didn't know pain or fear, but I know nothing else right now!_

"Sir," Ushatar said, and Rakhan couldn't miss the deadness in the once lively Uruk's voice.

"Listen, _pushdug,_ I'm not supposed to be telling you this, and worthless piece of shit you are, you'd better listen up. It was Dolpan ratted you out to Gharsh-il."

"Miserable fucking—"

"Ushatar, listen! Dolpan said you stabbed up the Uruks, but he also said you had no choice because they followed you into the tunnel."

Ushatar might have laughed if it didn't make him so sick.

"Dolpan's got something against you, I don't know why. He is one sick, troublemaking motherfucker, and I'd kill him myself if I could get away with it. But for his honesty, so called, and his loyalty, he's been promoted. He's not out of the bullpen, mind you, but his word carries rank now. Watch your back, Ushatar. If you kill him, make sure everyone around sees that he attacked you first."

"He'll never give me that chance," Ushatar groaned. Clever bastard!

"There's something else, Ushatar. Your _sharlob—_"

"Have they killed her? Does she live? Tell me!"

Rakhan grunted, shaking his head. "She lives for now, but Gharsh-il thinks he made a mistake in letting you down into the pits with her. He thinks she's made you weak, and I agree."

Ushatar couldn't hide his shaking, but he nodded his head stoically, determined to take it. Maybe Dolpan was his way out after all. _Close my eyes, wait for the blow, embrace the sweet, painless void._

"You only have today, Ushatar. They'll be getting rid of her tomorrow: she's not taking the whelp well, it's got her half dead already."

"What!? She's breeding, and they're going to kill her? She's breeding? Already?"

"Stupid fucking fool! Can't you see she's what got you to this sorry place? Got half your platoon thinking you're a _loburz_? Get your last little bit of—whatever it is you get—from the _sharlob_, because it ends tomorrow. You'll fall the fuck back in line and wait for the next battle, do what you were bred to do: kill for Master. There's nothing else, Ushatar. You have to accept that."

"Thank you for warning me, sir," Ushatar muttered, tasting his own puke. "I won't forget it."

Rakhan looked hard into Ushatar's eyes. "Don't forget yourself, Ushatar. You are Fighting Uruk-hai: nothing less, and surely nothing more."

The moment Rakhan was gone Ushatar skipped past the mess hall and ran on burning legs to the commissary. He pushed his way past the freshly-armed Uruks heading out to the training ground, and tore over to Ghuribal's station. The little Orc popped up from behind the counter, and when Ushatar met his gaze he knew that Ghuribal already had heard of Tarka's fate.

"Help me, Ghuribal…" Ushatar begged. "Give me a knife. Give me a poison. Give me something that will end it quick, for her and for me."

Ghuribal stared at Ushatar, shaming the big Uruk whose eyes were flooded with humiliating wetness. Ghuribal's gaze darted about, and then he slunk out from behind the counter, flipped the sign on the door to the two black lines that indicated he was taking a piss-break. "I'll give you better than that, Ushatar, but it might lead to a worse end for you both."

"Make sense!" Ushatar growled desperately.

"There's a way out of Isengard."

Ushatar's heart leaped into his throat and he opened his mouth to demand it, but the old Orc held up his hand, signaling silence.

"Old N'Mway knows it, though she can't help you along it. Patchuk the jailer knows what's going on: he's the one told me your mate was sick and doomed. If you run, you'll have the wrath of the Master to contend with, and he'll be in your head to make you sorry as soon as he finds out. You'll have whatever lives in the black, ancient tunnels to get past. You'll be a deserter, an enemy now not only of the white-skins but of your own kind. Except, that is, for a small clan of Free Orcs deep under the Misty Mountains. If you can get to them, bringing my mark, they'll give you shelter. They've done it before, since the first Orcs were enslaved. We're all risking everything here, and you'll have the worst hell to pay if you're caught… Or even if you're not caught, what with the Master's powers. You might lose your mind, you might beg for death by the end, and this is why it's hardly ever worth it to help anyone get out. But in your case… I don't think you're such a piece of shit _baalak_ anymore, Ushatar. I think you're an Orc whatever your breeding, and I don't want to see what will happen to you when they butcher your mate and put her scraps in your breakfast. If that happened to an Orc… He'd never come back from it. So: even though you're a sorry piece of shit who probably won't make it out of the tunnels, even though you'll never make it past the River Isen and you'll probably kill your mate and yourself when the Master gets at you, are you brave enough to take that chance?"

Ushatar couldn't even speak. He was ready to run right then, run into the face of any threat so long as there was _hope._

"Can you read a map?"

"Passably," Ushatar said impatiently, shaking hard with adrenaline.

"Good enough," Ghuribal decided. He reached under the counter and pulled out a flat leather sack. "Finding food will be hell, and you'll have a breeding female with you who's already near death. I drew out how to make a bow and arrows, I drew out a map, I made my secret mark on it for you to give to the leader of the _durub-baiark_ once you arrive. And there are two good blades inside as well, and a couple small viles of _akrum. _The female will need it more than you."

"_Durub-baiark?_" Ushatar asked. He'd never heard of a _baiark_ before.

"The Clan Leader," Ghuribal explained. "A clan is a family, Orcs who live together and look out for one another. You'll see, if you're lucky. But hurry the fuck up, Ushatar. You want to be far the fuck from here by tonight's roll call. They'll look for your corpse first, but eventually they'll start to hunt you down."

"Ghuribal—" Ushatar whispered. He had no idea how to express his gratitude.

"I'm probably sending you to a horrible death, youngling. I don't want your thanks, just your silence outside if you make it. Never tell anyone how you got out of Isengard, and make sure your mate keeps her mouth shut too. And here: dress in a fresh tunic. You smell like shit."

Ghuribal tossed a clean black tunic to Ushatar. He ripped the old one off, put the thin satchel over his shoulder, and pulled the tunic on over it. Then he bowed his head to the old Orc, and dashed out the door.


	15. Chapter 15

_"Tarka-izub, skaiiii…"_

Ushatar leaning over Tara, looked up to the witch and whispered. "What's wrong with her? She looks like death."

N'Mway shrugged, kneeling down on Tara's other side. The girl's eyes were darkly shadowed and sunken. Her cheeks were hollow and her color chalky. Her breath was shallow and her clothes were filthy, and she seemed ten pounds lighter than when he'd seen her last.

"In the world o'Men some breed well an some don't. Uruk is worse, harder. The whelp takes everything from'er. Give 'er meat, much as ye kin find. Give 'er blood, ye can't find meat."

"Where the fuck would I get-?" Ushatar closed his eyes briefly. "I understand. What else does she need?"

"Clean air, clean water, clean self. She'll be sick as shit till it come. Wrap that blanket around 'er for ye go."

N'Mway nodded her head, thinking. A long time ago, before the cells had locked doors, she'd been a rough breeder, though not nearly as bad off. She'd won her life—and the trust of her keepers—by betraying her sisters who'd wanted to raise up and fight as far as they could get out. All had been slaughtered. There was not a moment the older woman didn't think of their cries, the fact that she had stolen what little victory she could from them. Nothing much she could do now to atone, before her time came. Unless N'Mway saw one she thought would make it out. The old woman tucked a loose strand of thick, shamefully dirty black hair behind the small, fiery young woman's ear. She looked up warningly at Ushatar. "An ye be easy on 'er too, yer most o'er problem."

"Best run now," Patchuk said impatiently, stinking of fear.

"N'Mway: what the fuck is in those holes?"

"Ye run and ye close yer eyes t'all else, Uruk. Cain't fight it no way. But it hate the light. An hour Men an wizard time for an Uruk to run, no more. 'ere now, put up summa this grain mush. Time te takee yer freedom."

Ushatar was afraid of Tara's body now: it seemed so fragile. And where was the baby? In her belly, of course, but he couldn't see a thing different but that her hip bones were sticking out more. He began to lift her with an arm beneath her back and one under her knees, but Patchuk made a small hissing sound and shook his head. "Gotta play it for the eyes of the others. We've been too long anyway…"

"I'm gone," Ushatar said, grinning at last. He picked Tara up and put her as easily over his shoulder as he could, hoping he wasn't smashing his own whelp. _Could this be happening?_ "One more thing: how long does it take for the whelp to be born? And how will it be?"

"Nine turns of the moon, Ushatar," Patchuk said, not adding that he'd never seen a _sharlob_ bear an Uruk baby, and he doubted she'd survive the pregnancy. Still, "It'll be small when it comes. She's gotta look after it, let it nurse and keep it clean. But think of that later."

Ushatar stepped out of the cell, and Patchuk's voice changed. "Too bad, _baalak!_ Better luck next time! Pick a bigger wench, she'll last longer!"

"Might be a tasty'un, though!" N'Mway cackled, and Ushatar slipped out the door.

The tunnel that ran from the pits to the stairway, where Ushatar had been jumped, was a hastily dug thing that wrapped around the pit half-way and was full of pockmarks from earlier, fallen in tunnels and antiquated rooms no longer needed, where Saruman's earliest experiments had suffered darkly for his black science. Ushatar followed the wall for two-hundred fifty-one careful paces—taxing his young mind heavily. He looked down and to the left, and cursed softly. There was a hole there but it looked too small for him to get through.

Still, the witch had assured him it would be big enough on the other side, and that he could push the girl through. Ushatar put her down, and crawled on his belly into the forbidding hole. His predator's eyes adjusted quickly: inside was a strangely bored cavern. Ushatar could see no light, but he also saw no enemies. He slithered back out, then carefully, slowly, pushed Tara through. He followed so fast the rocks scraped cruelly over his clawed, untreated shoulder. Pressed the blade in his back into his back. Ushatar didn't care a bit. He took his two knifes out—crudely made black market daggers from scrap metal—then stuck them in his belt. He picked Tara up—the right way, this time, holding her close to his chest—and began to jog down the corridor. He kept his feet soft and his eyes and ears open, screening the air over his tongue each time he took a breath. So far it was safe: dank, insanely moldy, but safe.

The witch had warned him that the tunnel would diverge, and he was to go to the right. It was the only tunnel that ran down on a slow grade. The others, she'd said, started out flat and then plunged into the earth.

Here was the first place that Ushatar picked up a new scent: thick and bitter-salty, and warm enough for some manner of life. He felt its presence like a fine stroke on the back of his neck.

Ushatar bolted. He couldn't worry about Tara at the moment, she was better scrambled and dizzy than eaten up. His eyes flashed on the walls with sight so sharp he could pick up in the blackness that the hole hadn't been picked out by anything that stood upright, but bored out in a never-ending spiral.

_Cain't fight it no way, Uruk_, the witch's voice hummed.

Ushatar ran like he had never run before, on legs weakened from fifteen long days of standing. He ran until his legs were ready to burn. He thought he heard the thing behind him, slithering about beneath the thin ground under his feet. He imagined a labyrinth of holes, tunnels, full of rotting bones. He ran higher and higher, his ears popping, his body dripping sweat.

And then Ushatar saw light. He felt the faintest hint of cold air on his face. He ran for his freedom, tasting it in his mouth.

Ushatar, eight months old, the five-thousand five-hundred and twenty-ninth Uruk_-snaga_ of that name, stepped out steaming into the bright white light of winter in the Misty Mountains.


	16. Chapter 16

The first thing Tara knew was that she was unconscionably weak. The second thing was the taste of the Uruk's fiery liquor on her lips. And then she felt the bitter cold on her cheeks—the familiar bitter cold of fresh wind. Tara opened her eyes to see the sheepskin lining of her hood, and pale twilight that seemed bright to her after so long.

She was outside! Her reaction was physical, she lurched into herself with a great gasp and tried to get up, and then she realized she was floating along in someone's arms, and there was snow crunching under the one who carried her's light, quick, jogging feet.

"Steady," the Uruk's voice murmured, no more than a hiss of a whisper. Tara's heart fell, and she was shaken with confusion. "Look around, Tarka: we're free."

Tara's eyes adjusted to the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen. Deep winter light of violet and grey and blue, and the green of fresh, sweet pine trees. Through the trees were impossibly high mountain peaks, capped with snow that shone purple in the dusk. Tara caught a sob of elation in her throat.

"We're out, Tarka," the Uruk whispered, something close to joy in his rough voice. "You're sick as fuck. You've been puking and shaking, didn't even know it. But I got you, I know what you need to feel better, and we're already near 70 miles from that shit place."

"Why?" she croaked, unsure now. Could she be dreaming? And if so, why was the Uruk here, in her dream?

She felt a low, hard growl rumbling deep in the Uruk's chest, and he slowed to a quick walk. "Never goin' back," he hissed. "Never gonna be a slave again. And no one's gonna cut you up cause you need meat they don't wanna give. Gonna be hard for a few days, but I got food for you."

At that thought, her belly wrenched and growled mercilessly.

"Just a little higher into the mountains, Tarka, then you eat. Gotta be quiet though. There's Men up here: not your kind, Tarka, Men that go around Isengard and dress like animals."

"Wild… wild Men," Tara mouthed. She'd heard enough stories from old soldiers.

"Yeah, wild. Hush now. Gotta run."

Tara found it was hard to keep her eyes open for a very long time. It was hard to imagine that she was _out._ Even if she was with the Uruk still, even if she was pregnant with his monster-brat, she was out of that prison and that was a start. He'd said he'd make her better; she doubted it greatly, since he was the one made her sick, but if he did, and she got strong again, she would get away from him. Until then there was nothing to do but hope that he'd gotten what he wanted out of her, knocking her up, and now he'd leave her alone.

_And what the fuck will happen to me? If I was in Osgiliath I'd know what to do, even if the whores say it's a messy, bloody business. _Tara shuddered, knowing that if she wasn't strong enough to get home—and how far _was_ her home, if it even stood?—she'd never find anyone who knew how to get the spawn out of her before it hatched. "Oh-!" she gasped in misery, and almost prayed, but the words on her lips were frozen by thought of the foul thing inside her.

He stopped instantly. "Hurt?"

Tara refused to answer him. Was he fucking stupid? Did he not remember?

"Here's good enough, but just for a little rest."

The Uruk still walked around for a while, sniffing the air, wandering through the trees. Finally he found a little cliffside with an overhang, where the snow wasn't so deep. He set her down with ridiculous care, then took the blanket from her shoulders and spread it on the ground. He made to move her, and Tara raised a shaky hand. "I got it," she hissed, looking up at him for the first time.

He was a mess. His head needed shaving on the sides, his eyes were wilder than usual, and he had nothing on against the glacial cold but a poor thin tunic and some leather sandals. He swallowed hard, and watched as Tara pulled herself slowly onto the blanket. The he was kneeling beside her, offering her a small flask of liquor. "Keep you warm," he said quietly.

Tara took a greedy sip, then sucked the frigid air over the fire on her tongue. It was incredible how everything dulled at once: pain and fear and horror, and all worries of the future. "Not bad," she said quietly. "You drink this when you kill and rape people?"

The Uruk dropped his eyes guiltily. "No. Drink that when we get stabbed up, so we keep fighting for Master. Kill a few more Men before we drop."

"Your Master is a piece of shit," Tara spat, egging him deliberately.

The Uruk nodded. He didn't seem sullen, though. Just: quiet. "Not my Master anymore. And he is… he is… a piece of shit."

"You're still afraid of him," Tara realized.

"Fuck him. Like I said: not my Master anymore. Look, you sit still. I don't wanna risk a fire, but I wanna get you fed. I'll be back. I'm not going far."

Tara watched him walk away, into the trees. When he was gone she relaxed somewhat. Looking up, she could see brilliant stars blinking in the sky. _I never thought I'd see stars again._

Footsteps in the snow. The Uruk came back, her cup in his hands, stirring whatever was in it with his bare finger. He crouched down beside her, too close to her for comfort. "Just… Just open your throat and choke it down, all right? Gonna make you feel better."

She looked into the cup dubiously. It looked somewhat like the mush she'd been given in the pit, but hardly dissolved into the still melting snow. And it was _black._ Deep, slick black, like tar. "What's in it? Medicine? Poison?"

Incredibly, he laughed a little. "I didn't go through all this… this fucked misery, then turn deserter… just to poison you. But you won't like it. Yeah… it's medicine. Of a sort."

Tara was too hungry to object. She took a tentative sip, and the rich salty taste nearly made her vomit again. But she threw her head back the way old Gwenna'd drank her brandy, and let it go down her throat without tasting it. Somehow, though he'd mixed it with snow, it was warm in her throat. Her belly rolled over the new sustenance, and the rumble of hunger was quieted. "Can I get a little more of that… that drink?"

"Yeah, sure. But we don't have a lot, so just a sip."

A little drunker, a little fuller, Tara leaned back against the rocks and hugged her coat over her cold body. He'd been right: the food had some sort of medicinal quality, and for a short moment she didn't feel like she was being eaten from the inside out. Tara looked at the Uruk again, wondering if she should thank him. Then she noticed it. "You're hurt! You got cut!"

There was a slice on his arm, near his wrist, almost in the place one would cut to end their life. Inky blood dripped down over his hand. "S'nothing. Rest for a little bit, then we gotta get running again."

Tara sighed, glad at least to feel better than she had in weeks. The Uruk pulled a folded piece of paper out of a flat leather satchel, studied it like he was reading a map, running his finger over it and looking around as if he wasn't very _good_ at reading it. She peered over his shoulder, seeing roughly drawn mountains and lines that made little sense to her either. And then she saw a drop of the Uruk's black blood drip into the snow, and she understood what he'd given her.

"Oh shit!" she cried, trying to jump up. Her legs buckled and she fell, and with cat-like reflexes the Uruk caught her and held her. She slapped him hard in the face, and he ate it willingly, and didn't budge. "Get the fuck off me! You made me drink _blood_ you motherfucker! Your blood!"

"Shh, shh, _Tarka_ stop it! You want us to get attacked? Get caught and taken back? Please, quiet!"

"So… disgusting…" she sobbed, wishing that she'd start puking again. When she realized that she couldn't—for the first time in two _weeks_ her body felt content—she sobbed harder. But the threat of capture made her muffle her mouth with her hands.

"I tried to hide it, right? Didn't want to tell you? But you need _something_. It was good for you, and you feel better. And I'm gonna make a bow just as soon as we get away from here. Get you a deer or something. You like deer?"

"Oh—Eru, please…" Tara sobbed silently, horrified.

"That bad?" he asked quietly.

"That bad," she cried. "And you… you… I don't want you touching me… Let alone have your _blood_ in my mouth and your… Fuck, I can't even _say_ it."

"I know," he hissed back, even as his eyes roamed about the darkness and he sniffed for enemies. "I know I fucked up. It's not gonna happen again. I'll _never_ treat you like that piece of shit did to—Just, be brave, all right? This isn't gonna be easy, but we're going to survive."

"I fucking hate you!"

"Yeah, I know you do. But I'm gonna see that you live, all right? And I'm gonna put as much distance between you and that fucking place as I can. That's what matters now. That's what we think about now."

"Don't fucking tell me what to think!"

"I didn't mean that," he replied quickly. "What I mean is, like in a battle… You keep your eyes open, yeah, but you cut down one enemy at a time."

"_Bad_ example, motherfucker!"

"It's all I know, _Tarka._ But since you got life enough in you now, we're gonna start running again. They catch us… we'll wish we were never born."

Tara groaned and covered her face with her hands as he swept her up again, and started to run through the deep snow.


	17. Chapter 17

_Bring them back alive… And UNSPOILED._

Ushatar sat up gasping, grabbing his throat. His mouth watered for human blood, human flesh. He wanted something called a Halfling, wanted to hunt it and catch it and bring it to the wizard. He wanted to fuck anything that could be pinned down. He wanted to feel his sword tearing and twisting through guts.

But he wasn't being let out of a pen, and arming up, and running off to hunt and kill. He was in a warm, dark cave, near a low fire… and then he breathed _her_ in, and the Voice quieted just enough for him to catch his shaking breath. Ushatar stood up, walked to the tight cave mouth, and tried in vain to take a piss through the raging stiffness of his cock.

Soothing _that_ was out of the question. The way he felt, he knew what he would do to her: it would be rape, not mating. Ushatar would never let that Voice in his head, and the urges it brought, make him hurt his own fucking mate like a mindless _snaga._ Abandoning the effort to piss, Ushatar returned to the cave, and sat down at what he hoped would be a safe distance from her delicious scent and body. He picked up the long stick and began to whittle it down to match Ghuribal's sketch.

The female moaned a little and turned her face to the fire.

_Fuck, she'll be hungry,_ Ushatar thought, carving harder. Blood and gruel was holding her, she had a little color at least, but her eyes and cheeks were still hollow: getting worse, maybe. And what about the whelp? Was it starving too? Or just eating her? He couldn't think which was worse.

Ushatar looked up: her eyes were open, liquid grey, beautiful, but bewildered as usual when she woke. She took in the cave and the fire, and sighed in a little relief. But not much.

An image of spraying human blood flashed hard before Ushatar's eyes, and he suppressed his groan of desire.

"What are you making?" she asked, a sharp curiosity in her voice.

"Bow," he said shortly. "Told you, I'm gonna get you meat soon."

"That'd be nice," she admitted quietly.

_Of all the fucking times I _wanted_ her to talk to me, she picks now! _How long would he feel the urge? Until the wizard's mission was complete? And what about the next mission? Would he be a _snaga_ forever in his mind?

_I'll just have to fucking bear it! At least I'll have her. At least I can build her a _dar_ and teach my whelp to hunt. At least my whelp will be free in his mind. At least the wizard won't touch _him.

Ushatar looked up again, and forced himself to smile. "Yeah, that'd be real nice. I can shoot good, too, though I was never picked for an archer."

He saw the girl cringe, he smelled her fear, but then a hardness crossed her eyes. "You're pretty damn good with your sword. If you hadn't been… just fucking with me… I'd have been dead on that first strike. On my… my old rooftop."

Ushatar grinned a little. "Second strike. You blocked the first. It's fucked up… I never remember anything about battle, it's all a haze when I try. But you… I remember everything about finding you."

She shuddered, and he thought she'd go silent again. Better that way, maybe.

Then wary like an animal, she leaned away and asked, "He fucked with you, right? Your old Master? Made you want to kill?"

"Yup," Ushatar said shortly, afraid that the more he talked about it, the stronger the urges would get. And yet he couldn't tell her it was happening as they spoke. He shifted his weight a little, keeping his body turned away from her.

"You want to kill now?" she asked, cold with fear. But was there a test, maybe, in her voice?

Ushatar lay the bow and knife down, and looked hard at her. "I won't hurt you, Tarka, not ever again. I can't blame the Master for the way I treated you, at least not all the way. All I know is that I don't _want_ to hurt you. It makes me sick. I want you here, with me, same as me with no fighting. We build a home together like Ghuribal said."

The female stared at him for a moment, and then she put her face in her arms, pointy elbows of her coat out at him like daggers, and sighed, "Oh, shit. Oh… shit."

* * *

_She dunna listen, she dunna listen._

In a thousand ways, this was worse. Tara tried to twist it around in her dizzy head to some advantage, and it was all rotten. He'd watch her _more._ He'd never let her go, like some fucking wild animal. She'd drank his fucking _blood. He scarred my fucking neck, for life._

Fuck this, Tara thought, and then she turned and puked.

A cup of water slid by her face, too fucking quick. Tara took it and turned away. Tried to breathe. _If only I wasn't so exhausted! _She reasoned that the first thing she had to do was build her strength up. _I cannot call for Grace anymore,_ she reasoned, _because I'll get stronger at any cost, so I can get away from him. And then I'll drown the little monster when it comes, and see what's left of my home._

"You're more scared," he said.

Tara lost her breath and her temper, she was trying so hard to hold everything in. "Of course I'm more fucking scared!"

Thankfully, he went quiet then, back to whatever demented thing he was thinking about her. Tara blinked her eyes hard, concentrated on the warmth of the fire, and refused to cry.

* * *

"I want to walk myself. I want to take a _piss_ by myself."

"_Skai, Tarka_, you'll fall right on your face!" the Uruk said—so concerned now—shaking his freshly shaved head. His long braids were pulled back neatly. He'd bathed somewhere while she slept, and she was lethally jealous but not about to ask for the same.

"Then I will get back _up._" Tara said, and hideously he nodded, and backed away to watch.

Tara pushed herself up on rickety arms and legs, feeling all the blood in her body rushing to her face hotly, then down to the floor. She stood refusing to look at him, desperate to claim triumph. As soon as she stepped forward the cave rocked and she dropped to her knees, tasting her own bitter tears.

"S'all right. You'll get strong again. I finished my bow. Eat what we have left, and then once we get down the mountain I'll hunt you your deer. You'll be on your feet quick after that."

Tara grit her jaw, and allowed him to lift her, counting the moments until she would never feel his touch again.


	18. Chapter 18

In the morning Ushatar carried Tara down from the frozen trails until it turned to mud. There were streams rolling in the distance, and Ushatar set Tara down beside one, then stalked off quieter than the wind to follow a herd of deer. They smelled predator and ran, and he came back jubilant with a strong young buck over his shoulders. It had done Ushatar a great deal of good to run: loosened the vice of the Voice's tight bowstring of evil desire.

Ushatar was excited. If he'd read the map right and run hard enough, he'd make it soon to what Ghuribal called the gate of the Misty Mountains, where there were Free Orcs. The people of his fathering, as he understood it; he could only hope they would welcome him.

His mate, as he thought her, had slept for much of it, but the few times she'd been awake had showed him he'd not chosen wrong. Tarka was tough and forward minded, a mate that challenged him to be as strong as he could be, in mind and body. Though his penmates ran to a place he now knew—somehow—was called Amon Hen, Ushatar breathed in his mate and fought the desire to harm. He was deeply relieved to discover another thing: his female was breeding, and moment by moment, he began to catch two scents off her: that of his mate, and that of his offspring. The combination soothed the constant desire to fuck that was all wound up with the desire to terrorize and kill.

But she wanted him nowhere near her, and it hurt like death. He wanted to be inside her—dammit, _gently_ like never before—as soon as the night fell, regular as the moon's rising. Those two times she'd been awake though: she'd vomited when he told her what he wanted for their life, and she'd been horrified at his attempts to save her. And she'd moaned, low in her sleep, pushing her hands down from her belly away from her, and Ushatar had no doubt what it meant. And it made him think of Dolpan—which led to that awful wondering, if Dolpan had finished the job in him. Ushatar found himself reliving every horrific moment.

Ushatar suddenly knew what his fierce _tarka_ mate's problem was, and it terrified him. If she saw his whelp as… well, as he saw what Dolpan di—_might_ have, maybe, thought about doing inside him…. Then Tarka would be living in something worse than the _dar-daghum. _The seed he'd forced into her would be growing inside her, and _that _would be what was horrifying her. For sure, if Dolpan had managed to leave the slightest _trace, _and it _grew!_ Ushatar would be horrified. Oh_, Tarka,_ he thought, hoping against hope it was not so. Could she really be so humiliated?

Ushatar, butchering the deer on the riverbank, was hit with the weight of what he'd done under Saruman's control. He'd been lucky enough to find his true mate—they called it weakness because they were jealous, damned _snaga _Uruks!—but he'd beaten her away with his own body, and shamed her to dust, without the least clue of what he'd been doing. Ushatar grimaced, working his knife through the tendons of the deer. If he'd even a half of a belief that Dolpan had left anything in _him_, and it _grew!_ _So of course, why should my mate be so different than me? _

The Uruk rubbed his throbbing dick miserably. He'd thought maybe after a few nights…. He'd even hoped as he ran down the deer that she would welcome him for it. He thought, from what he'd heard, that Ghuribal's old mate might welcome her Orc into that sweet warm, quiet _inside _after he killed her a stag. Now Ushatar knew the truth: Ghuribal's old mate had never seen inside Isengard. Never been twisted up by it, so that what should be good would be bad, done bad, felt bad; everything that could be good, all bad.

"All right, Tarka," Ushatar breathed sadly, summoning up the strength to feel hatred burning off his natural mate, stabbing him in the gut with her eyes because of what he'd done to her as a _snaga_. "Come on, _ambal, pretty, _come on, wake up. Your Uruk has deer for you."

The female curled around in his arms for one sweet, helpless moment, as if she'd been longing for care all her life. And then when she recognized who was holding her, she twisted instinctively. All of this before she'd woken up yet. Ushatar closed his eyes, determined not to feel. It was his damn fault anyway: could he not have been stronger, more aware when he scented her? Could he not at least promised her meat, and made her smile before he _stuck _her?

She stared at him with needy, miserable eyes: a slave's eyes, he knew it. She was waiting helpless for the meat. Hollow eyed, staring at the crackling grease in the fire, knowing that the one she hated was providing what she needed. He knew it's please her more to reject the meat-it would surely please him to do that, in her place-but her body was overpowering her mind and demanding sustinance from whatever source, even a hated one. Tarka reached for the meat near raw.

"That's done enough for you?" Ushatar asked, knowing that the girl from Gondor wouldn't want the blood, but the whelp inside her would. He slipped the steak off his long knife and onto the cold rock. She devoured it, then seemed like she would get sick. She lay down by the fire, her slim fingers touching her face in horror. Throughout the long night, Ushatar fed her bits of meat from his knife, savoring the sight of her satisfied need while dying to know that was the most pleasure he could have from her willingly.

Ushatar reclined on his elbow beside her, and passed her a slice of venison, memorizing every contour of her face and fingers as she pulled it off his blade. Sometimes there was gratitude in her eyes—very, very rare, but when the meat filled her, and when she was full and tired, yes—and it made Ushatar feel as tall as the trees.

He was so wound up in _Tarka_ that he had forgotten his senses. His enemies… even the Voice… didn't seem as important in the evergreen shelter. A stream cut a path by where he lay, surrounded in thick hardy ferns. Mist seemed to rise from the very ground, hiding them. Ushatar listened to the warbling water, desperately nursing his mate back to the health he'd stolen it from her. He forgot the world outside them in the girl's eyes.

It was then that an arrow—tipped with the unmistakable black feather of a crebain wing—hit the earth next to Ushatar's sandaled foot.

The girl was terrified instantly, and Ushatar's reaction was straight from his guts. He snatched her up by her shoulders and held her close to his chest, whirling about to find his enemy while sheltering her in his arms. His rough-made bow was in his hands, of carved ashwood, the string braided from a cut of his tunic, arrows made from sticks. "Shh," he whispered to her, peering around for the threat. His enemy was very clever.

And then his enemy stepped out of the brush, ten _snaga_ Orcs wearing warm leather and furs, mixed with chain mail. The tallest one, with seven piercings down the bridge of his nose, said, "I am Aarth-Anghum. If ye've leave to pass show it, or ye will die in a breath."

All of a sudden, Tarka's small hand whipped out to grab his tunic. It sent a spasm of delight-and a fierce need to protect her-through his body. Ushatar looked down at her, and her grey eyes were full or terror. "Shh," he murmured, knowing she'd never understand. Then he whipped the piece of paper out of the satchel Ghuribal gave him, disengaged her hand gently from his tunic—how he hated that, priceless moment!—and walked through the water onto the Orc's territory. Behind him, Tarka squatted to the ground, as if she could hide herself.

The grey-faced Orc with wide black eyes studied Ushatar's face, and then the paper, and then the face again. His eyes flicked to the female briefly, but he kept his head bowed, showing the mated female the respect of not gazing overmuch upon her. The Orc could scent that they were a bonded pair, and the female was breeding.

"Ye've made it to the Misty Mountains, free Uruk. Shoulder your weapon and follow me into sanctuary, where warm beer and meat await ye and yer mate."


	19. Chapter 19

"Hush, Tarka, you're safe, I swear it. I'll never, _never_ let anything get through me to hurt you… Never again," Ushatar crooned to her as he carried her back down into the dark beneath the earth. The poor thing was shaking violently, all resistance gone. Ushatar knew instinctively why she was afraid: of course, his own heart trembled at going underground again! But still he followed the ten Orcs down black tunnel.

"Permit me to speak of your _udalgurz_," Aarth-Anghum said, speaking his own language now. He met Ushatar's eyes in the darkness, seeking approval.

"I do not understand: _udalgurz._ To me, it means put two together, connect."

"Your female. _Udalgurzu _is a true mated pair. I would not speak of her without your permission. We don't do that here."

Ushatar—bewildered by such courtesy but heartened to hear it—nodded his head.

"She's not well, it's plan to sense. Not taking the _dag_ well, it seems."

"_Dag_?"

"In Westron: baby. Breeding. I would put her in my mate's care. Brodha's our chief healer. It's not an easy life here: we've trolls, _snaga_-Orcs travelling through to join the Power, and Elves of course. Not so many Men, a blessing, now that the Rangers have gone to the War. None know we're so deep down here, so far, but we see enough battle hunting. Brodha's been patching folk up and birthing _dagu_ since she was a little one herself. But… your mate seems off in the head as well, no disrespect."

"We're both off," Ushatar admitted quietly. "But I won't be no trouble. I'm… grateful. I'd die alongside you, to protect this place."

"We could use your strong arm, _baalak_. She was in the War, obviously?"

Ushatar flushed with shame. He badly, badly didn't want his new—comrades?—to know that he'd fucked up his own mate.

"Not many secrets here, _balaak._ Most folk can read each other pretty good. But I know of the place you come from, at least, and what it makes you. So few of you claim freedom, that's reason enough for you to put aside shame, whatever you've done."

"She was in the War," Ushatar said firmly. "She was in the Tower."

"_Skai,_ what a misery for you. You ran for her, then."

"I want to give her her own _dar_, where she's free to come and go. I want to raise my… my _dagu_ with her, all our life together."

"_Akh, udalgurzu._ No Orc would let his mate stay in such a foul place as that, and Ghuribal never sends wrong-minded pieces of shit here. You're more Orc than _Baalak. _So: shall I set her up with Brodha? While you meet with the _Darub?_"

"Please," Ushatar said. "I can't seem to make her better. I don't want her—them—to die."

The Orc grinned. "Your mate and _dag_ will make it. Brodha wouldn't have it otherwise, as far as you've come."

"You're going to be okay, _Tarka,_" Ushatar murmured, laying his cheek against her hair. She was dead silent, probably unable to see anything with her poor _sharlob_ eyesight, and the only word she'd grasped was baby, which, Ushatar knew, was probably the last thing she wanted to hear. "They're getting you a healer, a female."

And then they cut around a sharp turn, and Ushatar's eyes widened in amazement. A long, high-ceilinged cavern glowed with light before him, sparkling with crystalline rock formations dripping like frozen waterfalls from the ceiling and rearing from the floor. And in the center of it all were long tables where Orcs—_Free_ Orcs—sat in equality, laughing, arguing, gambling and singing, playing and conferring. The rich scents of ale, _akrum_, and most of all plentiful roasting meat nearly knocked Ushatar off his feet. He was speechless for a moment, the Orcs around him avoiding his eyes but clearly affected by Ushatar's emotional reaction to the sight.

He caught his breath and hugged the female in his arms tightly. "_Tarka_, we made it. We're gonna be all right now, I swear it."

* * *

Tara didn't give a shit: she would have crawled into the Uruk's tunic to keep away from this new set of devils. At least _he'd_ had it before, awful and brutal as it was. She didn't want a thousand more defilements, even if this one, who seemed to have a _crush_ on her now of all things, got the wrong idea from it. She clung to him, one set of fingers twisting the rough black wool of his shirt, the other digging fingernails into his arm. As they left this cavern, with so many curious glowing eyes on them, and started down yet another tunnel, Tara thought she'd die from fear. Was he taking her to another cell? Had she really escaped one hell to fall into another? Missed her only shot to get away? _I should have dragged myself away until my nails bled. I should have stabbed my own throat with his arrows if there was no other way!_

She could only imagine this healer he promised her.

"S'all right, _ambal_, try to be not so afraid_."_

"Please… please… I'm sorry… like you said, let's have our own hut, please, I'll do it…" Anything to get away! To get that chance to run again! Tara began to sob desperately.

"We will, we just have to stay out of sight or we won't be free anymore."

And then the tunnel opened up, and again there was smoke and fire, but astonishingly there was some sort of _camp_ underground! There were tents set up everywhere, even the light of small hearthfires coming from the many dappled caves in the glistening rock. Most incredibly, a stream ran into a large pool, and Tara could see little Orcs splashing in the water. She saw _females_ with elaborate braided hairstyles in all stages of life, pregnant and not. Some gathered water, some skinned hides, some were around tables working at various industries. A gang of young females with flying braids ran down a corridor and disappeared into the mountain. There was _laughter_.

"You see?" the Uruk whispered, awestruck. "You'll be all right here. You'll be safe."

Tara shook her head, terrified.

Aarth-Anghum spoke in the Common speech once more, apparently for her benefit, though he never once looked her way. "This is a good home. There's the pool of course, freshened by the running water; but we also have a hot spring down that trail. You don't go without your mate, because the females spend a little too much time there on their own, and it'd be wrong to be around another Orc's mate without your own. Females and little ones generally don't go up top, though we have a few female hunters who'll pass through the upper hall. There should be a few empty caves in the back, you can use one if you like. Brodha will see to setting it up for you. Let me go get her now, you folks wait here."

The Orc bound down into the cavern with the agility of a wolf. Tara watched in shocked silence as he returned with a heavy-set grey-skinned female whose grey braids were done up in looping ropes atop her head, making her pointy ears stand out even more. "This is my _udalgurz_, Brodha," the Orc said proudly.

Brodha stomped up and took Tara in with raptor-like yellow eyes. Then her forbidding, ugly face cracked into a smile.

"Aye, Angha, a good strong _sharlob_. She'll fit in fine, _baalak,_ don't you worry. But let me have her now, it's gonna take a good bit of work to get her through her breedin'."

Tara dug her nails harder into the Uruk's arm, too horrified to even shake her head.

"I'll be back for you fast, I promise," the Uruk murmured into her greasy hair. "She's gonna make you feel better, you'll see."

"I won't baby her like that!" Brodha exclaimed, stretching out her arms expectantly. Tara bit her lips not to scream as the Uruk gave her over to the Orcess. "Gotta get her strong if she's gonna breed _dagu-baalaku!_ Come on, girl, let's get some meat in you first."

Tara's stomach let out a humiliating growl, and her mouth got all nastily wet at the thought. She covered her face with her hands, and Brodha made a harsh sound in her throat. "Look where yer going, _sharlob._"

Furious, humiliated and terrified, Tara dug her nails into her scalp, then ripped her hands away.

"Good: a little anger'll serve ye. But we're not gonna let it make ye sick, nor the fear either. Seems to me ye don't look cause ye seen too much ye didn't like. Coming from that shit place, I don't blame ye. But ye got a future to look at now, ye got a little one to mind even if it don't seem real to ye yet. Here ye are, _sharlob_, my place."

Brodha took Tara into a conical leather tent and lay her down on a soft fur. The Orcess squatted down before Tara, her fringed skirt hanging between her tough, bony grey knees. Then horribly, the Orcess Brodha took Tara's face in her wrinkled grey hands. "Aye, yer a hurt one. Prolly have years and years of sorrow in there. Rest now, I'll fetch ye some meat and make a nice tea. Yer gonna get better, now, believe that."

Tara shook her head and choked back a sob. The Orcess ran her fingers with surprising tenderness over her cheek, and it broke Tara's heart that she was put in mind of old Gwenna.

"Rest," the Orcess repeated. "Ye got plenty'a time to think of the hurtin' things. Now yer in my care, and I say rest."

Suddenly deeply grateful for this gruff creature, Tara let her body relax, as much as it could, into the soft warm fur.


	20. Chapter 20

"Ye ready to stand up?"

Tara looked up to the Orcess, who stood over her with her arms out and palms open. "I don't—I don't do it well," she admitted. "But I've been ready for a long time."

"Well, yer a little fuller, ye got some color, why not use yer legs? I won't let ye fall."

Tara nodded, and tried to push herself up, but she was wickedly dizzy.

"Take my _hand, sharlob_. Ain't holding it out for my own good!"

Tara was reluctant, seeing only claws and grey skin. But the healer's homey manner and curt tone left no room for argument, and Tara was relieved to let someone help her a little, even if her nature bristled at it. She managed a little gasp of surprise, maybe a faint happiness, when she walked on her own two legs: leaning hard on Brodha' iron arms, but doing it _herself._

But then Brodha pushed back the flap of the tent, and Tara froze. "Where are we going?"

"Ye don't smell like pine-forest and fresh air, girl. Yer _baalak_ don't mind but we females will."

"I don't want to. I don't want to go out there. I don't want to take my clothes off." Tara was stunned with horror at the thought.

Brodha eyed her carefully. "So how _do_ yer folk get clean? Unless… maybe ye don't?"

"No—_fuck._ I just… I just don't want to." Tara looked down at her ragged, bloody dress and coat and she shuddered in sudden mortification. She'd been judging these Orcs, but what did _she_ look like to them, covered in her own dry mess? She took a deep breath and tried again. "I don't want to bathe where anyone can see me, but I'd be glad to do it."

Brodha shrugged, and saw no reason not to accommodate the War-ravaged girl. Surely the Power had done enough harm in the world that they could afford to take especial care with its victims, hoping that maybe the same might be done for them if and when the War caught them. It was plain to Brodha—and really anyone who looked—from the blood patterns on the _sharlob_'s clothes, that one or more had got at her. She'd reason to guard her privacy.

"I'll take ye to the springs. Ye'll walk partway. We'll ask the others to leave for a bit, help ye out. But first sit down here, and let me pull out something fer ye to put on. Dunno where my mind was not thinkin of it before."

Brodha took a loose leather wrap and an intricate belt of bright braided horse-hair, and then she dug up a comb, clean rags, and some herbal rinses that soothed as they cleansed. She threw a quick glance to the girl and asked, "Still bleedin'?"

Tara's eyes fluttered in shame, and she shook her head tightly. She kept her eyes to the floor as Brodha first led her, slowly, then carried her through camp and down a winding tunnel. She heard wild, high female laughter, as far from human as could be, echoing towards her. Then she smelled a pungent but clean scent, and felt steam on her face. She couldn't help but look up at the sound of running, pouring, bubbling water.

Near twenty young Orc females wrestled and played and chatted, as naked as the day they were born, in a wide, shallow hot spring that fell down from the ceiling, splashed over three flat boulders, and fell into a pool below before disappearing into the mountain. And every last one looked up with lightning quick eyes in shades of yellow, green, and amber. Jaws fell open, revealing pearly teeth with vicious short fangs.

Brodha barked something, and the Orc females slipped sinuously down from their slick perches, rose from the warbling waters, and filed out of the cavern in a silent line. Every last one appraised Tara openly, haughtily, eyes shining with fierce curiosity in dark, oddly handsome faces. Tara cringed when she saw how many had horrific looking scars—bites—in patterns around their slick supple dark bodies, some covering large areas: swirling around a thigh, slashed across a back, weaving over the cut of a waist and dropping down a strong, fleshy hip. But the littler ones had no bites at all, and wore their black hair in long, flowing braids.

"Don't pay 'em no mind. They never seen a _sharlob_ before. Innocent things, they live good lives down here, they play and work and get their mates and raise their little ones, and have not a foggy dream of what's going about in that world up there. We've never been attacked, ye see, though for a while we had a demon snatchin' little ones gone astray. It's gone now, though."

"I could tell them stories," Tara said quietly.

"Oh, they'll pick ye fer 'em soon enough, don't worry! Here now, let me set you down at the edge of the pool, and ye get all that filth off. I'll take yer clothes and scrap what I can fer ye, then burn the rest I 'spose. Yer gonna need all kinda things t'start, needles and twine and blankets, better see what I can get from the others…"

Tara was anxious about stripping, unable to look at her own body without complete revulsion, but she wept for gratitude and deep pleasure at the hot water. She heard Brodha chattering on behind her but the words faded to the background as the girl slowly washed. At first she was reluctant to touch herself at all, but the healing water and soothing rinses won her over and finally Tara sunk into the steaming water. She floated for a while, letting the tumbling water's noise drown out all her thoughts. But when she emerged on hands and knees, she was more than glad to see her new clothes waiting for her, and she scrambled to pull the dress on. Brodha didn't miss how carelessly the girl tied her belt, as if she'd no desire to show off her pretty little figure or the swelling breasts of a breeding female that would have been a mark of status among the Orcs. The dress was big, and the girl's hand kept sweeping self-consciously to the fresh mark on her neck, picking at the scabs.

"I'll comb your hair fer ye," Brodha said quietly. The girl cringed from touch.

Tara burst out suddenly, "Can I sleep with you? In your… your _dar?_"

_Ah, that's what it is. _"I seen a devil in the _baalak. _Not his devil, I don't think, but there all the same. Had a few escaping that awful place, I know what it's all about. That where he got you?"

"That's where he _brought_ me," Tara whispered, terrified to say it aloud, as if it would suck her back in.

Brodha sighed heavily, teasing another knot out of the girl's long black hair. "Don't think he wants that for ye, though. I can see. He's bonded to ye. If he can fight the devil, he'll be good to ye like Orcish mates are."

"No, but that's _it_," Tara said, choking up at it. "I can… I can manage it when he… when he was… so vicious. I mean I _can't_ but I do, you see? But now he thinks we're… mates…. Thinks… a family… he's gonna be all over me, and he's gonna be soft and… that's what I can't take, you understand? Treat me like a whore, like meat, I can… I can handle it, even the hurt… but.. I can't… it's not fair…."

"All right," Brodha murmured, laying her hand softly on Tara's shaking back. "It'll work out, girlie, all things do in time," But Brodha thought, privately, that she wasn't so sure. There were ten layers of iron and ice around the _sharlob_, and deep, wounded darkness and demons of blood in the _baalak._ Even with all the help in the world, however would they make it? And a new life into the mix! But that there, the babe, might be the thing to focus on. "Come on, time to get back and get ye another bite to eat. Yer gonna be real hungry for a real long time, might as well get a head start on it."


	21. Chapter 21

Ushatar did _not_ want these thousand Orcs to smell his terror. But he smelled _them_, their maleness, their rivalry and levels of dominance, and it make his knees weak.

"Come on, _baalak,_" Aarth-Anghum said firmly. "Gotta meet the Durub if you wanna stay."

Ushatar put on his game face, hoping that the rest of his body would follow along. No one knew here what Dolpan had done. No one would denounce him as a _loburz_, not for what Dolpan had done, nor for his care for Tarka.

_"OHHH…_

_ Five hundred elves, five hundred trolls_

_ And whatta we say to that?_

_ To arms, boys! To arms!_

_Run 'em down and hunt 'em down_

_ Till they never come a-back!_

_ OHHHH…."_

Ushatar entered the crystal hall and saw near a thousand Orcs banging mugs of hard _akrum_ and ale against the table, a splashing singing mess. But amazingly, there was no fighting.

"Durub don't sit up on no throne like a Man or an Elf, just at the head of the table with his brothers. But believe me, his law will keep in the cave, for without it we've no chance to survive as free Orcs."

"_OHHH!_

_ Rangers say, No Orcs Be Here_

_ And whatta we say to that?_

_ To arms, boys, to arms,_

_ Chase 'em down and hunt 'em down_

_ Till they never come a-back!_

_ OHHH…."_

A young Orc bounded up to Aarth-Anghum, who smelled much the same. "Who's this?" the youngling asked, eyes wide as he looked up to Ushatar. Ushatar stiffened at the direct glance, and Aarth-Anghum smacked his whelp upside the head.

"This the one gonna put ye in the dirt, ye look at him like that. He's a _baalak_, half-Orc from Isengard."

"Wooow…" the youngling breathed. "Where's your sword? You fought the Power and got away?"

Ushatar cringed at the easy way the boy spoke of the Power, the Master of his Master. But he wasn't about to yet a youngling best him, and so Ushatar stiffened his spine and said, "My name is Ushatar. I left my sword in Isengard, because it was the one I swung for _Him._ I'll make a new sword now, and if it's all right with Aarth-Anghum, one day I'll show you what I can do with it."

"_OHHHHHHH!_

_ The Power rise up from the Shadow, _

_ To turn Free Orcs to slaves!_

_ To arms, boys, to arms!_

_ We fight to death with our last free breath,_

_ E'en if we never come a-back!"_

"Ushatar, this is my youngest son Urauk. He's a good lad, a little dreamy, just picked out his mate but ain't set her up yet. Nice little Orcess named Daumani, I'm sure your mate will meet her soon. Urauk, not only is Ushatar a _baalak,_ he's got a _sharlob_ for his _udalgurz."_

Urauk looked dubious at this, wrinkling his pointy noise. "_Why?_"

"You don't ask _why_, stupid boy, not about another Orc's _udalgurz. _He don't even know _why. _ It's just so, when you meet the one you're meant to pair for life with. But don't you be starin' at her when you go down to the _dar, _unless you'd like him staring at Daumani. Now get yourself back over there and finish your meat. We're off to see the Durub."

_ Udalgurz,_ Ushatar thought, smiling a little. Yes, that made sense. He knew that for the rest of his life, he would walk one step behind Tarka, unless he had to stand between her and danger.

"My sire will make you a new sword, Ushatar, he's the best at the forge. Then we can fight together!"

"Run along, boy!" Aarth-Anghum barked sternly.

Urauk skipped off, and Ushatar realized with sudden shock that the young Orc was years older than him. He didn't have long to consider it, though, for they now made their way to the long wooden tables, and the singing and boasting died, and all the Orcs looked up.

If he'd been around Uruk-hai, or even other Orcs, there would have been snarls and hisses and worse. Ushatar's size alone was a challenge to the more dominant among them. But though there were hissed whispers and flashing eyes, all of it came to a stop when a big, grey Orc with iron bars piercing through his ears and silver chains on his neck stood up from his meat and ale.

"Aarth-Anghum, who is this _baalak_ in our home?"

"Took his freedom from Isengard with his mate Draagh Durub. Ghuribal sent him with his mark."

Draagh came around the table. He was a powerful Orc but barely half Ushatar's size, yet there was a fierce fire in his eyes, and such a strong scent to him, that Ushatar knew he'd have a hell of a fight with the Durub should it come to that. Would they want him to fight? Would have have to prove himself, as he did in his first moments of life at Isengard? Ushatar didn't want to fight tonight. He longed for simple acceptance, but he wasn't sure such a thing existed.

Draagh narrowed his hard stare, and then he nodded and said, "Welcome to our Sanctuary, free _baalak._ Come and sit beside me, and we shall have some talk with our meat."

Grateful, Ushatar followed behind, wondering if he was a fucking coward after all. Why did he not want to fight, really? Was he truly a bitch like Grashgar now?

"We keep law here, _baalak,_" the Durub said. "And not all can abide it, so they go on, or they make trouble and they die. Know this from the beginning: I took my own brother's head off for breaking my peace, and I don't hesitate to do it again. Our laws are simple: no attacking other Orcs, no fucking around with another Orc's mate, and if battle comes, every Orc takes up arms against it, _whatever _it might be. I know of this Eye, I hear his whispers in my sleep, I feel the fear of my fellows enslaved in his service. He will try to come here one day, when he's beaten all the men and elves, and we are resolved to die in freedom. Will you stand with us?"

"With all my strength, sir."

The Durub's face suddenly became friendly, a bizzare transformation. "Good! Then dig in, eat from my plate, as a brother would. Tomorrow you will hunt for yourself, of course, but tonight you are my guest. And another thing: you don't have to sir me, I'm not your fuckin' sire, I just keep the peace."

* * *

Ushatar ducked his head into the small cave, still whirling from the Durub's welcome, and from the sight of so many Orcs. It would take a long time before he would feel comfortable around so many males, and longer still before he could jest and sing defiantly about the Power. For sure, it was a strange lot he'd taken up with. He'd had a feeling that the Durub wanted to pick his mind about the Master, and Isengard, but thankfully the talk had ended before that.

And then Ushatar grunted hard, like he was kicked in the gut.

His _tarka_ lay asleep under a fresh blanket of mismatched furs. She was _clean_, something he hadn't smelled since he first took her. Her face was almost peaceful in repose. Her long hair, black as a crebain and scented with sweet chamomile, was strewn across the furs she lay on. His mark was clear on her naked throat.

Ushatar dropped to his knees, the relief pouring out of him that she was finally safe… and so _beautiful._

_ Takehertakehertakeher, slam her, break her, own her…_

Ushatar put his hands to his ears, shaking his head, biting his lip until hot blood spurted into his mouth, and pain clouded the Voice in his mind. But the longing wasn't from the Voice alone, the Voice just preyed on it, relentlessly, as if the wizard was cutting him where he was weakest. Ushatar stretched his hand out, his fingers shaking as they hovered over her cheek, over her throat.

_Dammit, just show her, _Ushatar thought_, just prove to her you won't hurt her. _He could do it, he thought of that… that horrifically beautiful last time… when he'd wept inside her… desperate for her comfort, desperately afraid of losing her. He'd loved her, though she didn't know it, and there was no fresh blood but his own on her pale thighs.

His trembling fingers brushed her cheek now, and she stirred. Ushatar's heart banged with desire, he needed her to open her eyes and _see_ him, him, not the monster he'd been. See him, and then embrace him.

And then she woke, and her grey eyes were cloudy with exhaustion for one long moment. Ushatar lowered himself gently to lie beside her, his hand still shaking as it cupped her small, sharp cheek, his breath quivering, his need so strong it made him sick.

Light came into her grey eyes as sleep faded, and Ushatar hazarded as much of a smile as he could. But her eyes… they swelled with horror, pain, agony, flooded with tears, condemning him.

"I'm not… I'm not gonna hurt you…" he promised, suddenly feeling wrong, but so desperate.

Her eyes seemed accusatory now, and she shook her head slightly in his hand. Fear mixed with fury in the flickering light of the fire and Ushatar hung his head, whipped by it. His long braids brushed her neck, her chest. So _close…_ He clenched a fist again, digging claws into flesh. He didn't know what to do. Maybe if he just _did_, and she didn't get hurt, maybe she'd soften to him…

But Ushatar knew this was no longer good enough. He wanted permission, he wanted welcome. He wanted to be held, for the first time in his life, and there would be no one else for the rest of his life—he knew it in his guts—who he'd ever let hold him, who he'd ever trust with his body. He wanted to smell her desire for him, not her hatred and terror. Gritting his jaw, shaking from the effort of self-denial, he brushed his lips over her brow and reeled away.

_Take her! She's yours… _the Voice purred, and the sudden sound of her sobbing echoed from his memories into the small, safe cave. Ushatar scrambled to the far side of the fire, his desire throbbing brutally, his heart breaking, the Voice giving him flashes and memories of rape and blood and dominance. Squatting with his back to her, he pressed his fists into his eyes until he could see no more of the Master's malice, or his own bloody memories. "S'okay, Tarka. I'll sleep here. You… you need anything… just… call for me."

She made no reply but a gasped cry, and Ushatar rocked, terrified that she would _never_ call for him, and that he'd deserve it. It was the pain of a thousand swords, a million Dolpans, and worst of all, he had wrought this misery with his own hands.


	22. Chapter 22

Ushatar only needed a few hours rest. When he opened his amber-green eyes again, he smiled, breathing in the clean warm scent of his mate, scenting the whelp a little more as it grew inside her. And then he remembered the condemnation in her eyes, and he sighed.

_Well, plenty to do anyway. Hunt my own meat, start figuring out how to get weapons…_ Ushatar was free now, and he didn't want anyone _giving _him anything, as much as he could help it. And he badly, badly wanted to kill some large animal, a bear maybe, to make hides for his own _dar._

A spike of fear shot through him, fear and rage, and somehow he heard pounding hooves in his heart. For a moment all was confusion, and then, soon enough: silence. The silence of the abyss, where there were no more chances, and no more self. Ushatar shuddered and sat up, blinking in the dim firelight.

He knew for certain that his penmates had been slaughtered, the mission failed. He heard the furious roar of the wizard rattling his skull, and while that pleased him, Ushatar felt sorrow for many of the Uruks he had spent his life sleeping beside. Not Dolpan, of course—fuck him, whatever sword had cut him down could not be dull enough—but for many others, including poor Nuk who'd lost his mind in shame. Ushatar looked to the sleeping form of his _Tarka,_ cuddled up in warm furs. _If I'd not gone crazy for her, not ran with her, I'd no longer be Ushatar, I'd be nothing._

_ But if she won't have me, what is it worth?_

He was gone when Tara woke up, and she was glad. She'd not a moment to dwell on his behavior, though, for Brodha was soon outside the small cave, clearing her throat to announce herself a moment before bursting in.

Tara was pleased to walk herself to Brodha's _dar._ She needed help, the long hours of sleep had left her dizzy and monstrously hungry. _Monstrous,_ Tara thought. _Like the thing leeching off me._ She turned and puked outside the _dar,_ then bit her lips in shame.

"No trouble," Brodha said, "I'll clean it for ye this time. Soon enough ye do yer own work."

"I'll be glad to," Tara said. "So glad."

After a strangely delicious meal of rare-cooked beaver meat, and a cut from the fatty tail, Tara startled to hear excited voices outside the _dar_, chattering to Brodha as she cleaned. She caught a few words in her own tongue: we speak enough of it, Nemlii more than anyone! Pleeeease?

Brodha's sharp grey face poked through the door flap. "Ye got visiters, girlie. Better now than later to make some friends, eh?"

"Oh—No, Brodha—" Tara shook her head, but the old Orcess replied with a sharp grin and soon three others—young ones—entered the _dar. _Tara gasped to see that they were followed by a female Dwarf with rich, thick red curls and cherry-red cheeks.

They stared at each other for a moment, fire flickering on the three dark faces and two pale ones. Of the three dark one, two were small with loose braids and no visible bites. One was just as young, but her braids were wrapped up in an intricate style, and not only was her neck scared there was a _fresh _bite on the visible curve of her dark grey-black breast. The females sat down around the fire.

"So…" one of the little ones began, her words halting and her voice heavily accented. "How'd a skinny _sharlob_ like you wind up _udalgurzu_ with that—that _big_ delicious _baalak?"_

The others laughed immediately, but when the one with the marks saw Tara's face blanched in horror, she pinched the speaker roughly, producing a high squeal. "Don't mind Shari, she's a little overripe for the picking. Thinks of _nothing_ else. I am Faalca, the Dwarf is Beornemlii—but that's a mouthful, so we call her Nemlii. The little one is Daumani, she'll be mating any day now with Brodha's son."

The one called Daumani grinned, fingering a necklace of chain-mail links. Tara had the immediate understanding that the necklace was a gift from… from the Orc, Brodha's son.

"So where do you come from?" Daumani asked.

"Can't you see her eyes and coloring? Numenorian," Nemlii said, her excitement visible. "She is from Gondor, a place of white marble cities. An ancient, proud race of Men."

"But you'll stay with us now, _sharlob,_ won't you?" Shari asked. "We've never seen your kind before, except for Faalca, because she's a hunter who goes above ground, and she only sees Rangers who are unfriendly to us."

Tara, reeling from the sudden attention—from creatures who didn't seem in the slightest _damaged_, saving the brutal scars on Faalca—tried to find her voice. The mention of her home was a terrible hurt, but what Tara focused on were Shari's words. "You mean… none of you leave this place?"

"Only Faalca," Nemli confirmed. "And there are a few other female hunters, but most of us have sense and stay in the Mountain. And Faalca at least goes out with her mate."

"But we all know _how_ to hunt," Faalca reminded them. "And we practice fighting too, with the _durlob_. That's the Durub's mate, she keeps us sharp in case we're ever raided. So that we can live or die fighting."

"But no one ever raids so deep in the mountain," Daumani said, a little fear in her voice.

"Never say that," Nemlii said firmly, clasping her palms together.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Nemlii—" Daumani murmured, ducking her strangely beautiful face.

"S'nothing," Nemlii replied firmly. "All a very long time ago, to me, and Daghri and I are very happy here. Like you will be, Numenorian. Have you a name, or are we to call you _sharlob_ forever?"

"T-Tara," the girl said, gripped with shyness. How bold they all were! As if they had known each other a thousand years, seen all the ins and outs of each other's lives; almost like the sluts at Gwenna's brothel, rowdy bold girls bonded in rough friendship by their craft. Tara had been afraid to join them, but had found their friendship as necessary as air. How she missed them all… and poor Mela, doomed in Isengard…

"War's getting bad, isn't it," Faalca murmured, inhaling Tara's misery.

"My home was destroyed," Tara said, shutting her eyes, picturing Osgiliath in the sunshine. Gwenna, Madam Willian… all her friends, even the soldier boy who'd wanted more from her than she could give. "All are dead, or wish they were."

"Well," Nemlii replied briskly. "I lived in Moria, such a city as would make you weep for beauty. But this is my home now, and it can be your home, and we shall be your friends."


	23. Chapter 23

The next morning, Tara woke to the sound of rolling drums. Blinking, she sat up. It was miraculous how much better she felt under Brodha's care, given meat four or five times a day, plus a healthy dose of medicinal teas to strengthen her blood. And, Tara suspected, to calm her as well. She was not nearly as terrified as she had been first entering the cavern of Orcish families.

Then she looked over to the monster, and as ever a sour feeling pitted in her belly, and she felt invisible chains tugging at her.

He _smiled_ at her, an angular grin to make a mockery of a playful boy. He was fletching a new arrow with grey, stripped tail-feathers, a pile of a dozen or so beside him. Tara's skin crawled, wondering how long he'd been watching her.

"Got a taste for anything special today?"

_You, bastard,_ Tara thought bitterly. She gave him stony silence, and he picked his weapons up and left.

"Easy enough," Tara murmured to the fire.

The drums made her curious, especially when she heard wild trilling, ululating calls. She drew herself up on shaky legs. Balancing her hand on the cool, quartz-filled wall, Tara left the tiny cave.

Outside was a celebration of some sort, or at least the beginnings of one. Although the Orc females still went about their washing by the pool, and got their stew-pots bubbling, and set up hides for carving, there was drumming and wild, loose dancing as well. Near Brodha's _dar_ another of the conical tents was newly set up and a steady stream of visitors surrounded it. Tara could see Nemlii's bright red curls done up in fancy braids, loose flame tendrils escaping in a cloud around her plump face. Tara even picked out Faalca, who stood grinning patiently as an old Orcess patted the younger female's belly. As if she was pregnant.

"Up early! Good! Much to see today," Brodha said, coming up the ridge in a fancy leather gown decorated with thousands of musical porcupine quills.

"What's going on?" Tara asked, taking her arm. Every step she took without throwing weight onto Brodha was a sweet victory.

"My littlest one Urauk is taking Daumani as a mate. He's off huntin' with my Angha, and Daumani's welcoming the clan to her new _dar. _She's set aside one of my blankets, hoping ye'd come."

_How can I say no?_ Tara cringed not only at the thought of attending such a gathering, but at being in a place of such central attention. But the Orc girl was one of the only… _people?_...to make Tara feel welcome, and Tara longed for the companionship of young females.

As they approached the campsite, Tara hugged herself tightly. But Brodha swatted her arm with a rough hand. "Don't do like that, _sharlob._ Makes folk think ye got something to hide. Bad energy, bad scent. In some places, it'd get ye jumped, but not here."

"I'm fucking dying, Brodha!" Tara cried softly. "I'm scared to death! How can I go to such an... event?"

"Cause Daumani wants ye to be with her, Tara, and it's her special day. Ain't that enough?"

Tara frowned, thinking it over. "All right," she agreed, taking a deep breath. The Orc girls—well, with the exception of Faalca—were not intimidating at all, but actually quite kind. Even if they looked and moved like wild predators. They were _female_, that was the most important thing. And Brodha was quite certainly saving Tara's life, though it had thrown Tara's plans into a jumble. Unsure how she'd escape now, or get rid of the demon-spawn, Tara'd fallen into not thinking about the next moment, only hoping an opportunity would arise.

Brodha gave her a squeeze. "Ye'll come along just fine."

The four she'd met yesterday were all together in Daumani's new _dar. _They exclaimed over her new possessions: a fine wooden trunk most _certainly_ pilfered from the home of a Man, many beautiful furs and skins, a set of ornately carved bone dishware, knives, weapons, and on… Beautiful deep dyed skins hung on the walls, red and yellow, green and blue bleeding into each other with wildly soothing beauty. Daumani sat on a beautifully carved stone chair, which Nemlii fussed over and brushed with her fingers so much that Tara wondered if that had been _her_ gift. The young female-the bride-wore a beautiful dress decorated with fringe and bone beads. An incredible necklace of shells—from where?—was draped in twisted layers over her sleek inky neck.

Tara suddenly realized that she was empty-handed. Orc females came in all around her in a wandering line, bearing gifts from homely to extraordinary. But Daumani beamed and extended her arms when she saw Tara.

"I want to walk myself, Brodha," Tara said, smoothing the front of the baggy leather dress Brodha'd given her. Brodha let her go, but pat her arm gently as she did. Tara managed a small smile, the first since the Uruk had taken her from her burning city. There was nothing else to do but give in to the Orc female's embrace, so Tara leaned down awkwardly and lightly hugged Daumani.

"You can sit next to me," Nemlii offered, patting a sleek black fur rug, and Tara lowered herself carefully to the floor.

"That's… beautiful," Tara told Daumani and Nemlii, pointing to the bench.

"I made it myself," Nemlii beamed. "There's good rock in these Mountains, full of crystals if you know where to look."

"She was just waiting for you to ask," Shari giggled—_purred_ would be more correct—sitting on Daumani's other side. "Nemlii can make anything out of stone, even pillows."

"Hardly," Nemlii huffed, pleased all the same.

Faalca swept over and squatted before Tara, artfully balancing a tray of rare, juicy sliced meats on her clawed fingertips. "Figured _you'd_ be as hungry as me."

Tara took a slice, and stumbled over her words, tried to ignore the discomfort of the subject. It was strange to fall back into chit-chat, as if she was at home. But so, _so_ different. "I didn't know you were—"

"Four moons, thereabout," Faalca told her with a grin. "I hope for a female to hunt with."

"That's why you can't tell," Nemlii said. "She's too damned skinny from all that running."

Faalca hissed in play, and it sent shivers up Tara's spine. "I live and breathe for it," Faalca proclaimed. "Here fatty, have a cut or five."

Tara found herself smiling that morning, though she turned her head and hid it with her hand. But at midday, just as the excitement was building on the drums, Brodha brought in a shot of medicine for Tara, then murmured, "Got a visitor outside. No males come into the new _dar_ before my Urauk does."

"It's _him_," Tara said, shaking her head.

"Who else?" Brodha asked, offering her hand. "Handle yer affairs, girlie."

"I'll get up myself," Tara insisted, and she pushed herself up, furious that he would come here just as she was starting to feel the tiniest bit of normalcy.

"Strange, right?" Shari murmured as Tara left. "It's like she hates him."

"You mind your own business," Nemlii admonished, and the others agreed. No one should invade the privacy of another mated pair, or even another family, unless some gross offense required the shame of the community to correct. But Orcish violence most always directed outward, not inward to the mates and offspring. They were a hated people in an unwelcoming land, and they looked out for their own.

Tara stepped out of the _dar_. He was waiting for her at a respectful distance from the female visitors, terrifying in appearance alone: tall, almost lanky grey body fleshed out with iron muscles, barely covered by a poor black tunic; the long angular face with harsh, hard bones shaped into predatory features and an aquiline nose highlighted by the long mohawk. The bright, glowing eyes, somehow sickly alight at sight of her. Brodha delivered her before him, and hustled away.

Tara crossed her arms and looked at his frayed leather sandals, waiting for him to speak.

"I found something for you… Aarth-Anghum put a hole in it for me, to get it on the cord. Here."

Tara's eyes flushed with hot tears. Furious, she looked up, and he opened his big clawed hand. Tara was amazed: he held a chunk of amethyst in his hand, set on a thin leather band, to be worn as a necklace. In Osgiliath, Tara would have tried to find a way to cut it off a lady's neck, though the gem wouldn't be in such a rough setting. It was far too much; Tara couldn't stand it anymore. Hotly aware of the close, sharp ears of dozens of Orcs, she forced herself to meet the Uruk's gaze and hissed, "Could you just _stop_ this? Stop fucking being nice to me! What's wrong with you? How could you _do_ that to me? After everything!"

"I fucked up," he breathed. "Fucked up bad, I know it, and I don't… don't know how to fix it. But that doesn't mean I can't take care of you now. You should have food, warmth, pretty things."

"Fucking stop it! Just stop it! I'm not her! I don't want you to take care of me!" Tara hissed, getting louder now as she gestured wildly to Daumani's new _dar_. Pointed ears tried not to flicker their way. "I'm your fucking whore, all right? Your _breeder._ Your slave. Treat me like it, stop beings such a fucking liar and treat me like it!" Catching her sobs—strangling them, as she wanted to strangle the thing he put in her—Tara battled for a dignified escape. She didn't want to call Brodha; she didn't want to wait that long to be away from him, and so hard as nails, Tara walked back into the _dar_, dropping back down by Nemlii moments before she collapsed.

Faalca's eyes were wide, but she quickly looked away, trying to make sense of what her keen hunter's ears had heard. She could not for the life of her understand _whore _or _breeder_, but she knew what slave was, she knew her people was suffering in slavery to the south and east, in ever-growing numbers. The _sharlob_ sat with an iron jaw now, skipping her eyes around the _dar,_ the happy party. Faalca wasn't sure how to approach it, but she knew she wanted to. She suddenly had a very bad feeling about how the _baalak_ came to exist as well. _Breeder..._

Faalca couldn't help herself. "Eat a little more, will you Tara?"

The _sharlob_ was practically green, ready to be sick. Faalca saw an astonishing flicker of murder in Tara's eyes, and then Tara shook her head, and said she wasn't hungry at all anymore.

Nemlii, who had two sons, was surprised. "Well _that's_ something!"

"I think we need to take a little walk, Tara and me." Faalca said, raising a delicately pierced eyebrow to Tara.

"He's… probably right there…"

"Doubt it," Faalca replied firmly. "And what if he is? You think I'm scared?"

The other three females were scandalized. Daumani and Shari had heard the yelling, not enough to catch words but enough to know it was a conflict between _udalgazu,_ and no one else's business. But they also knew how hard-headed Faalca was, and not just because she was a hunter.

"I'm always, _always_ dizzy," Tara warned, taking Faalca's arm to stand up. She was reluctant to talk; but a part of Tara was ready to let it all go, tell what he had done to her.

"Which is why you should eat," Faalca said. She guided Tara out of the _dar_ and down to the poolside. Most of the work for the day had been hurried through already, now that the hunters were coming home. Soon there would be a full out celebration, bonfires and drinking and dancing. Standing before the clear water, Faalca said, "It's not the little one's fault, you know."

Tara hissed her breath, disgusted. "I don't want it in me."

"First one?"

Tara shot her a hard look. "Only one. I don't want children."

"You want your home?" Faalca asked softly.

"Oh damn, yes," Tara gasped. "But what will be left of it? The whole world is falling into Darkness. You all are… different than I thought, and probably the safest of anyone down here. I like you all, a little, once I get past the teeth and eyes... But he's a _monster_. You can't imagine what he did to me… I can't tell you, either, not without killing myself, but I'm not here, or _pregnant_ of my own free will."

"What, he stole you? He's _bonded_ to you, everyone knows it. I don't understand how it could happen, you're a _sharlob_, but he is. Did he catch you and steal you? He forced you?"

"Whatever the fuck _that_ means, bonded, _udalgazu _whatever, it mustn't count for much. He raided my city. He caught me hiding in my house—my own house, mind you, where I lived alone, free like you say you value—and took me away, coming after me with a sword, grabbing my neck, and slamming me on the stone roof. He did all those things you say, for five, six fucking days of torture, I can't even be sure I didn't lose days in there. I don't give a _fuck_ that he's playing nice now. I don't trust him, I can't stand him, I don't want him near me. And I don't, I _don't_ want this fucking _thing_ he put inside me."

Faalca stood wide eyed, amber gaze glowing in the warm firelight of the cavern. She sighed, overwhelmed. "The wall is pitted with little caves. Maybe you should have your own. I don't see how you'd build a _dar_ unless you had some skill to trade for hides, but as long as you help the others they'll share firewood or fat for a lamp, and you can keep the things Brodha gave you. It's not usual for a female—for anyone, really—to sleep alone, but it's not unheard of. I don't think anyone would say anything if you did it. What business is it of theirs? You're grown, and not their child anyway."

Tara grabbed Faalca's hands, startling the Orcess for a moment. "Oh, please, please... Can I really do it? What about him? And how will I eat? I'd love to hunt with you, but I can hardly walk."

Faalca's face lit with delight. "You are a hunter? You were a female hunter in your city?"

Tara couldn't believe it when she heard the foreign sound of her own high laughter. "_Something_ like a hunter. But I have shot a bow, and I'd work hard at it."

"If you get your energy back, we'll start now. If not, after the child comes. You're pregnant, no going back on that, and the baby is blameless. But you won't be as pinned down as you thing: I was _terrified _of that, and I made my mate wait a long, long time because of it. But there's always someone eager to watch the little _dagu, _they are our life. As for the _baalak?_ He'll hunt for you, he'll feed you; you'd have to kill him to stop him from doing it. Just tell him what you told me: he hurt you and stole you from your home, and you don't trust him. You'd rather sleep alone for now. You're _not_ a slave, Tara. We don't have those here."

"He wouldn't—He'll go crazy. He's crazy, believe me."

"Whatever he is, Tara, he's your _udalgazu,_ or you're his at least, and I don't know what happened _before_ to mess it up, but now he's doing right. And if he goes back, if he goes crazy and tries to attack you, he'll have to leave or die because attacking is not allowed here. But I think he'll understand if you tell him, and of course he'll hunt for you and his child."

Tara stared at the proud Orcess for an amazed moment, and then threw her arms around her and cried softly, feeling hope for the first time since the Uruk had thrown her life to hell.


	24. Chapter 24

"She's going to stay by me, Ras. I'm going to explain the dancing and teach her our language," Faalca informed her mate, a lean, sharp eyed Orc with tawny brown skin and twenty small rings pierced through his ears. He'd returned with two rabbits from his traps and a brace of duck struck down with a hooked wooden stick. Now he frowned in disapproval.

"I don't want any trouble with the _baalak_," Ras warned in his own language. "Why can't she stay with him, let him explain the dancing?"

"Because she doesn't want to. She's not happy with him, and it's none of your business."

"You involve me!"

Faalca switched her eyes to the small pale-skinned female, more fragile looking than a _dag._ "She's hurt, Ras. She's scared of him. And she's breeding, having a hard time of it, too. She needs little peace. She's gonna take her own cave for a while."

"Tell me that wasn't your idea, sweet."

Faalca shrugged in innocence.

"You want me dead," Ras accused, but there was nothing he could say more about it. He knew the mate he'd chosen. "I hope this crazy fuck from Isengard has his head on a little tighter than I think. Here, I'll skin and spit my own damn supper. I don't want her in my _dar._"

"What about the duck for Daumani?"

"Take them to Nemlii's hearth. Maybe your older brother won't care about having the _baalak's udalgazu_ under the roof of his tent. I'll toss you your spice bag."

Faalca looked down at Tara. "Don't worry about it. Ras is just trying to show respect to the _baalak._ What's his name, anyway? We can't keep calling him half-breed."

Tara shook her head. "I've no idea."

Faalca took Tara's arm firmly. "I just don't know what to say to that. You're breeding, and you don't even know his name. Who raised him, that he doesn't have the sense to tell you his name even now, even if he was such a brute to you before?

Tara only shook her head. She'd tried to block it out, as much as she could. But the spawn were taken out early, and the jailer Orc had mentioned black magic. "I don't want to know about it. But I don't think he _was_ raised. It's evil there. He was their… their warrior. They… I'm sorry, I just can't, Faalca."

"Sure. Forget about it. Will you help me make this duck for Daumani? Do you know how to cook at all?"

"I can pluck feathers, at any rate," Tara said, and Faalca grinned. She liked this _sharlob_ a great deal. Nemlii and Daghri—much older and wiser than Ras—liked Tara as well, though Daghri and their two grown sons developed a great desire to dance by the stream-fed pool, and see to the lighting of bon-fires. Tara was grateful for not having to be close to the three forbidding looking male Orcs. She'd almost melted before Faalca's mate—just _thinking _of the bites on Faalca's flesh was near enough to reduce Tara to quivering, as she realized it must be some sort of violent _mating _thing with Orcs. Thankfully, Ras had wanted nothing to do with Tara, not even catch a scent of her in the cool, smoky air.

But afterwards, when they joined in a feast between Brodha and Daumani's _daru,_ Tara saw the Uruk standing alone at the perimeter of the festivities.

"I want to get it over with," Tara told Faalca and Nemlii. "Will you come with me?"

Nemlii paled, but Faalca nodded. "Partway. But don't worry, if he touches you all the Orcs in the room will pin him, and he'll have to answer to the Durub for fighting."

Reassured, Tara went to confront the Uruk.

* * *

"I don't trust you," she whispered, staring at the floor between them. "I… I can't even fall asleep most of the time, with you there beside me. I can't… can't… " She squeezed her arms around her body, delicately, as if she was still in pain from him. "I'm so fucking scared of you…"

"I _swear_ I won't hurt you…" Ushatar pleaded, just as softly, both of their words hidden under clapping and singing, drumming and flutes.

"You already did!" the _tarka_ cried out. Fear was leaking from every pour of her body.

Ushatar's chest heaved with almost panicked breaths. She was running away from him, leaving him. Overwrought with guilt and sorrow, he couldn't even fight her. He didn't _want _to fight her, but it felt as if she had clawed through his chest and was reaching around, giving sharp tugs. "I don't want you to go away from me, _Tarka."_

"That's not my fucking name!" she blazed finally, all cold fire. "You don't even _know_ my name. I don't even know if you _have_ a name, and I'm pregnant with your spawn! That's what it's all about, right? Making fucking whelps? And hurting me as _much as possible_ in the process?" She was wild with terror now, sobbing in fear as she spat at him, but unable to hold it back anymore.

Ushatar clasped his hands behind his neck—_she flinched when I moved my arms_—and tipped his head back to the cold stone ceiling. She was absolutely telling the truth, and Ushatar could find no way around it in his mind. He'd been insane to think that she could forgive him. Would he forgive Dolpan? She was fragile and delicate—which made it all the worse—but just as proud, just as fierce as Ushatar was himself, that was one of the things he liked best about her. _You don't even know my name._

"You're not my slave," he said quietly. "I've been a slave, and I won't have any. Least of all you. But please… don't keep my whelp—my _dag_—from me. I want to know him, I want to teach him to hunt. And I will _always_ take care of you, no matter what. I'll hunt for you, I'll protect you with my life. I don't want you to be afraid to sleep, _ambal…_" Ushatar's voice cracked, and he whispered, "You do what you need to do to be healthy again. I won't stop you. I won't hurt you—anymore."

The girl caught her breath in gasps, and she covered her mouth with her little white hand to hold them in. She nodded her head, then tried to compose herself. He noted that she was always wearing her hair down now, concealing the mark he'd made on her. Always clutching her body with her arms, as if he'd broken it.

"I won't keep—it—from you," she said quietly. "I don't know… I mean… I don't want it… But I won't keep it from you."

"My name is Ushatar," he said quietly, hoping she didn't look at his wet eyes. Hoping the shameful thing would stop before males saw it. It wasn't fair that the pain he felt on the inside would have to show on his face, marking him as a whiny _loburz._ He didn't quite believe that no one would rip him apart if they saw _such_ weakness. "It means: Warrior. That's all I am, all they made me to be. But I'm very, very sorry, sorry to the death, that I ever hurt you. I hope one day you might tell me your name."

Ushatar waited for a half of a hopeful moment, then stepped around her and walked away. He waited on a short line, eyes coldly straight ahead so that he neither noticed anyone nor gave himself away, and got himself one of the celebration's mugs of ale. Then he fled the family caverns for the empty upper hall, sat down at the table, and buried his head in his arms, biting his hand not to scream.


	25. Chapter 25

"Dammit, Faalca! This is _shit!_ I want you to go back."

"Ras, I'm really, really going to be sick if I don't get some cold air. And run about a little. And he isn't even _looking_ at you. Least of all me."

"That's because he never looks at _anyone._ Don't know what he's thinking, can't even catch a scent of it. Even when he's in his cups."

"Well… they were soldiers, right? Warriors? At Isengard? Maybe he's just really, really disciplined. And even if he is unfriendly, that doesn't mean he's thinking about jumping you. Or me."

"Away from the cave? Away from the Durub's law? Who knows? I know the _sharlob_ is a friend of yours but _really,_ Faalca… You shouldn't have gotten involved. It's just not normal to meddle with another Orc—even a half-Orc's—mate and home."

"Well he picked her, but she didn't consent, so really they _aren't_ mated. Not like us, not like Daumani and Urauk. And I don't know if she will consent."

"It's not our affair either way," Ras growled.

Faalca laughed lightly. "Oh, Ras, you need to relax a little. If you don't, however will you catch me?"

The tawny Orc's pale eyes lit up, and he growled, "Think I caught you up pretty good, Faalca."

"Did you? Are you sure?" Faalca reached over, lightning quick, and plucked a fistful of arrows from her mate's quiver. Then she turned and dashed up the tunnel, laughing in delight at her own speed, and the furious pounding of Ras's footsteps behind her.

Ushatar almost jumped out of his skin hearing Orcs running up behind him. He'd never liked anyone behind him, worse now after Dolpan. He jumped out of the way in time to see the _sharlob_'s friend fly past, her fringed tunic and leggings streaming. A lean, hard-faced young Orc tore after her, and she skipped and spun as she ran, taunting him with a fistful of arrows.

"One of our huntresses," Aarth-Anghum said, a moment before he noticed the wildness in the Uruk's eyes. And was that fear? Very fine, very deeply hidden if it was, and the smith couldn't be sure. Of course, he knew that Ushatar's _udalgazu_ had run away from him. There were no secrets among the clan. It wasn't unheard of—sometimes regular mates split up—but the _baalak_ had bonded to the _sharlob,_ and he'd be taking it hard behind his silent front. Ushatar also gave no sign he'd want to talk, no sign he was looking for advice, and so Aarth-Anghum had no way to broach the subject. But the smith wondered, did the _baalak_ even have the ability to reach out? He knew what went on at Isengard, one of the smiths was an escapee who'd told him enough cruel stories. Whatever Ushatar was feeling, he'd guard it closely, coming from that hell. It was extremely rare for any Orc to seek advice from anyone but his sire or the Durub, unless regarding a trade. But the half-breed, Aarth-Anghum thought, was in many ways more of a baby than Urauk, for all his power and size. Aarth-Anghum sucked his teeth a little, thinking what troubles such a combination might lead to.

"I'm glad Daumani doesn't hunt," Urauk said, joining them. Aarth grinned despite his worries for Ushatar. After two days, _that_ pairing at least seemed to be working out well, and the young Orc couldn't be prouder of his mate and his maturity. "I wouldn't be able to hunt, I'd be too busy watching out for her."

"I feel the same way, boy. Now," he said, turning the conversation away from the awkward subject, "There are deer nearby, sluggish in the dark, so that's a possibility for you Ushatar, you're pretty good with that bow. But I want to show you my traps, too. They come in handy when your shot goes to wide and scares the rest of the meat off."

"She likes venison," Ushatar said miserably.

"Oh, sure, who doesn't?" Aarth-Anghum said quickly. "But like I said, trapping is an important skill. And there _is_ a skill to it, _baalak._ Rabbits and such are dumb as they come, but not so stupid they'll hop right into your snare. Then there's fishing, that's a nice quiet way to catch a meal, if you've a mind to just relax in open air. Faalca's made some good nets, but she prefers the sport of running down her game. Still, we'll ask Ras—if we can catch him—to show you some of her nets. Some are regular nets, some are hooked lines you put meat on to catch the bigger fish. Ras also hunts with a throwing stick, duck and quail and the like. He's been doing that since he was up to my knees, so don't think it's something you learn overnight. But you ask him, he's likely to give you a lesson or two."

Ushatar grunted noncommittally. He wasn't in the business of asking others for anything anymore. But he felt a little comfort around the smith who'd welcomed him into the clan, and if anything, he was happy around Urauk who seemed to know no sorrow at all, and posed no threat whatsoever. They stepped into the deep grey light of pre-dawn, and Ushatar felt a small thrill to be free, about to hunt for his own meat. Hunting, he was learning, gave him a rush much like battle, only cleaner. The Voice didn't break in, there was simply no connection for it to exploit. After all, Ushatar hadn't needed to hunt meat in Isengard. He'd been _fed._

But to hunt, to run down game, without the twisting cloud of hate laid on him… To run on the wind, to sight game, to stalk it and defeat it with his wit and weapons made with his own hand, and _remember_ it after… If there was one thing—other than _her—_that freedom stood for, then it would be hunting with Aarth-Anghum and Urauk. Faalca and Ras already off on their own mission, the two male Orcs and one _baalak_ fell silent, and slipped into the rocky forest together.

* * *

"I want it to scar _light,_" Daumani insisted, holding up a small, polished bronze mirror. Nemlii held up a larger mirror of precious silver behind Daumani, plunder from a raid Daghri'd gone on years before. Shari knelt behind Daumani, smoothing a clear salve onto the mark Urauk had left above her shoulder-blade.

Tara swallowed her revulsion diligently. "What about you?" she asked Nemlii. "You all marked up, too?"

Nemlii smiled gently. "Got my own scars, Tara. There was a fire. Daghri got me out. Was his own people raiding, you see, but the fire was out of control, not his people's doing, and we both got penned in. I knew the way out, but was afraid to go through the fire. Daghri carried me out. He'd been left for dead and my folk _were_ dead, and I was burned the worst. He patched me up and we lived in the mountains for a while. See here," Nemlii said, twitching her skirt up to show raw burns along her legs. "Got them other places too, but not my face, thank Daghri. And not burned so much as I died from it, because of him as well. He had a cloak, he put the flames out. He carried me and ran through the fire."

Tara grit her jaw, trying not to show that Nemlii's story made her feel a thousand times worse. Daghri had been an enemy, but he'd _saved_ Nemlii. It wouldn't count as saving if Daghri had lit the fire himself, thrown her in, danced around the fire in glee as she burned and _then_ changed his mind.

"You want some too?" Shari asked Tara, climbing around Daumani to sit by the hearthfire. She held out a clay pot of minty-smelling ointment. "It's pretty late, but it will still help the healing."

Tara flushed, frozen for a moment. _Stay calm,_ she told herself. _It's not a bad idea, and it doesn't mean anything. Might as well try to heal the thing._ She was upset, though, that her efforts to conceal had been so useless. "Sure," Tara said, pushing a smile.

Shari squatted before her, pursing her own very full lips into a smile. She was the most feminine of them, almost like Mela, completely preoccupied with mating and breeding.

"Still bright red," Shari murmured, brushing Tara's thick black hair behind her shoulder. She ran her fingers lightly over the raw scar. Tara shivered, remembering the hard, stinging pressure, the deep pulling that had sent spasms through her entire body, the feeling of his chin digging into her windpipe, squeezing her breath. The scar ringed just over her collarbone to just under the top of her shoulder, covering the entire hollow of her neck.

"Kind of a scary place to get marked," Daumani said, looking on. "If you didn't know, I mean…"

"I didn't know," Tara returned quietly. "Shari, why aren't you… mated?"

Shari shrugged. "There was someone a year or so back, but he died fighting with Men who attacked him when he was hunting. There are a few… hopefuls," she said with a sly grin, "but nothing firm yet. They don't really approach the female, but her family first. And my sire is pretty tough."

"But she's _ready_," Daumani laughed. "Has her trunk all filled up with supplies for her _dar,_ clothes for her little ones. When someone does brave her sire, she'll land on his lap faster than he can spit."

Shari tilted her head, her loose braids of tough black hair hanging prettily. "That's not _true_, Daumani. I just won't be so scared, like _you._ Making little Urauk wait so long! What for? And see, it wasn't so bad after all, not if that glow in your eyes means anything. And your cheeks must hurt from grinning. Or is that gloating?"

Daumani took a swat at Shari, laughing.

"Urauk's a sweetie," Nemlii said. "Not a troublemaker like my boys, who take after their father in all ways. Don't have the patience it takes to carve good work, it's all hunting and wrestling and whatever else they won't tell me about. But here, enough talk about mates and babes," Nemlii said, her wise eyes on Tara. The Dwarf bustled to one of her many trunks and brought out some fresh skins as well as some old, scrapped dresses. "Tara needs more than one dress, and it wouldn't hurt to start on some swaddling for her little one. I've skins and some bone-beads, and knives and needles aplenty. What do you say we put our hands to work along with our mouths?"

Tara touched her heart a little, and mouthed an embarrassed _thank you_ to Nemlii. The stout Dwarf woman grinned and winked back.

* * *

"I think the doe ran down here!" Urauk shouted, dashing through the ferns and tearing down a trail.

"_Skai_," Aarth-Anghum growled, picking up the pace again. "Trying to teach the boy… to make clean kills… If that doe don't drop… we'll not be able to get any more huntin'…in this morning. Damn, boy's got my old speed! Guess… age… catchin' up…"

"I got it," Ushatar offered, bursting from his comfortable lope to his full speed, near twice that of a Man's. It felt incredible to open up this way, stretching out his powerful body, chasing a scent down. It allowed him to forget his misery about his _tarka, _who seemed to be lost to him. Ushatar launched himself over logs, enjoying the feeling of branches lashing at him, the frigid wind rushing his face. He leaped over a gulch, savoring a brief moment of flight.

And then he heard Urauk's high, terrified scream. Suddenly the feelings of pleasure and freedom were replaced with dread urgency. Ushatar tore down the hillside, following Urauk's terrified scent. But a new smell intruded then, pungent and malicious and old, something Ushatar didn't recognize.

When he emerged in the clearing, Ushatar skidded to a stop, wondering if a piece of the cliffs surrounding the clearing had broken off and come to life. The troll stood twice Ushatar's height and many times his weight. Ushatar had never seen a creature bigger than himself before, unless it was an uncommonly huge Uruk, and his amber-green eyes were wide with amazement.

Then he saw that the troll dangled Urauk by one ankle, the young Orc flailing helplessly. The only thought in Ushatar's mind was how good Aarth-Anghum and Urauk had been to him, and how he didn't want the young Orc to die. The troll began to swing Urauk over his head, planning to smash Urauk on the side of the cliff.

Ushatar let out a vicious, bellowing roar and launched himself onto the troll's back, digging into the tough troll-hide with his sharp claws. The troll dropped Urauk, knocking him unconscious instantly. Ushatar reached for the knife at his belt but the troll grabbed him by his long hair and lifted him into the air. Kicking and swinging for the troll's hand, Ushatar was as helpless as Urauk had been before. Ushatar was used to striking terror into his opponents, but the troll's dumb dark eyes showed no fear at all, no recognition for a Fighting Uruk-hai, nothing but mindless fury. It flung Ushatar brutally into the cliff-side. Ushatar felt his body break as he hit the merciless rocks, and lights flashing before his eyes. Dazed on the ground, his head ringing painfully, Ushatar realized that the enormous troll was stomping right towards him.

Ushatar rolled away just as a mighty fist pounded the bit of earth Ushatar had just vacated, cratering it. Summoning all the strength he'd been bred to, Ushatar sprang up from the ground, only to be smacked down again by the troll's hard, huge hand. It's claws slashed across Ushatar's chest, and Ushatar hit the ground once more.

"Ai, filth! Over here!" Aarth Anghum shouted, shooting two arrows into the troll's back. Bellowing with rage, the troll spun around. It's slow eyes locked on Aarth-Anghum, and the Orc stumbled backwards as the troll charged.

_I've only got one chance,_ Ushatar thought desperately. He forced himself up again, forced himself back into the mindset of Saruman's dark gift, where pain and weakness and fear couldn't touch him. Ushatar drew his biggest knife and charged the troll, flinging himself once more onto the troll's back. Gripping the troll with his powerful thighs, Ushatar used both hands to plunge his knife into the back of the troll's neck, breaking the blade off in the tough, bumpy grey hide.

The troll's roar died into a gurgle as its dark blood sprayed Ushatar in the face. The Uruk snarled viciously, mouth open, tongue out, taking the delicious spray all over his face and chest. He shook his head and roared in victory, then sprang off the troll and landed in a cat-like squat on the ground, his heart pounding, his blood racing, his mouth watering for ripped bloody flesh. Ushatar quivered at the release of his pent up darkness.

For a moment, Ushatar thought that incredibly, the troll would fight on. Then the sky broke, and the first rays of pale sun sliced through. The troll seized up, shaking its fist in agonized fury at the sky, and then toppled to the ground.

As soon as the threat was gone, pain and nausea rocked Ushatar. He staggered over to Urauk, shaking his ringing head hard in a desperate attempt to clear away the impending battle-haze that might have made him attack the very Orcs he had just saved.

Aarth-Anghum was hastily wrapping his son in his cloak, to keep the sun away from the youngling's dark skin. The Orc pulled his own wide hood up, then looked to Ushatar with deep gratitude. "You saved my boy."

"He's all right?" Ushatar asked urgently.

"Thanks to you, he will be. Got a lump on his head but no blood coming from anywhere. But you… you think you can make it?"

Ushatar took inventory of his hurt. His head pounded, like someone was sticking it with a knife, and there was darkness in the corners of his vision. His ribs were doubtlessly broken—he'd dealt with that before—but the worst was the sharp pinching in his back that sent cruel spasms down his right leg. His tunic front was slashed open and covered in blood.

"I'll make it," Ushatar said dismissively.

"Brodha'll take a good look at you when we get back," Aarth-Anghum said urgently. "We'd better hurry now. The sun burns us if we're out too long in it."

Aarth-Anghum lifted his son, and Ushatar tried not to limp walking alongside him. Anxiously, Ushatar said, "I don't need no one looking at me. I'm fine."

"This ain't Isengard, boy," Aarth-Anghum said, his voice rough with emotion for the big young _baalak._ "Here we take care of our hurt, we don't cut 'em up and eat 'em."

Ushatar grunted a little, nodding his head, though the terror of having his injuries exposed to others had him in a tight grip. But by the time they reached the entrance of the cave, Ushatar wasn't thinking about anything anymore. The pain in his body had overwhelmed him, and the darkness in his eyes closed in, and Ushatar fell to the cold, rocky floor.


	26. Chapter 26

Hands near his face, Orcish smell. Ushatar jerked his head away, causing sharp pain. He opened his eyes, and the old, plump Orc female made some sort of cooing, purring sound. "Easy, there. You finally met something bigger than you, eh, Ushatar?"

"Mmn," he moaned, relieved to see Brodha. "Troll."

He remembered now, but there was a powerful feeling that Ushatar was out of place, that he ought to be marching somewhere. "Urauk?"

"You saved my little _dag,_" Brodha said, briskly. "I thank you. My family thanks you. And above all, Urauk thanks you. He can hardly wait to come see you, but he took quite a knock himself."

"I'll go to him," Ushatar said, gritting his jaw to deny the pain as he made to push himself up.

"Not so fast!" Brodha pressed her hands on Ushatar's shoulders, holding him down on the fur quilt. "You're quite busted up. You have a bad concussion, four broken ribs, a body-full of nasty bruises, and a chip in your spine that you'll probably just have to live with now. Not to mention the slashes on your chest that I stitched up. I want you resting for a few days, and then taking it _very_ easy. If you weren't such a big _baalak_, your spine would have snapped and your brains would be more scrambled than they already are."

"I can't do that. I have to hunt. I can't—" Ushatar shook his head, horrified. "My girl. The whelp. She—she left—but I have to—"

"You saved my Urauk," Brodha said sternly. "And likely my mate as well. We've a big family, plenty of Orcs out huntin'."

"No, I don't wanna do that…" he mumbled, flushed with shame.

"Ushatar, quiet now. It is what it is. We'll be bringing you meat, and the _sharlob_ too, and I've started making you some proper clothes today. You gave to the clan, and the clan gives back. You understand that?"

"I'm trying," Ushatar said, turning his eyes away uncomfortably. "How is she?"

"Getting stronger, talking more, smiling a little. It's hard on her as the little one grows, but she seems to be made tough."

Ushatar sucked his breath in pain. _She's tough all right, but as fragile as a little bird, and I smashed her in my hand._

"Well. The Durub wants to come and talk to you, so I'll be off now, just as soon as you drink a little hot tea. Spiked with _akrum_, of course."

Ushatar let her lift his head. It was the oddest sensation in the world, to be touched in a caring way. The closest Ushatar had ever experienced to it was when Ghuribal roughly grabbed his arm in warning. He swallowed the hot drink and the healer lowered his head gently onto the soft furs.

He wished she'd stayed when the Durub entered his small cave. Even with the shot of _akrum,_ Ushatar couldn't stand lying on his back with the Orc over him. It was a perfect way for Ushatar to have his guts stomped out, or worse. The Durub quickly sat cross-legged on the floor, his body turned away from Ushatar, and Ushatar's heart slowed a little.

"What made you jump the troll?" Draagh asked, his heavy silver chains flashing in the firelight.

"Urauk. Didn't want him to get his skull split. Didn't want Aarth-Anghum to see that, either."

Draagh grunted a little in appreciation, nodding his head. "How do you feel?"

Ushatar grinned grimly. "Like I got my skull split by a troll."

"Anything else?" Draagh asked, his yellow eyes sharp.

"Well my ba— What do you mean?" Ushatar felt a chill of worry.

"Battle is joined in the south. Thousands of your kind, taking the River at the south of this range. Fighting with Men, but where are they going? They are but a few days march from us. I know your old Master speaks to you. I need to know what he says. And if possible, what _his_ Master says. Have they discovered us yet?"

Ushatar pushed himself up slowly, ignoring the reeling in his head and the sharp pains all over his body. He sighed heavily when upright, glad to be on the same level as the male Orc at last. "That's not what the Voice is about," Ushatar admitted. "I don't get to hear his plans. It's urges, mostly. Pictures. Sometimes words, but more feelings. But yeah, I hear him, and there's a battle now. My best guess, though, is that he's going after Rohan finally. Not here."

Draagh considered this, and while always the leader knew the fight would come soon, he was for the moment satisfied. Then he looked at the _baalak_ and asked, "He makes you want death? Or blood?"

Ushatar sucked a tight breath, ashamed. "He makes me want war. Blood, yes, but also fear and burning and… and other things. With females. White-skin females, like made me."

"And your _udalgazu?_"

"Gone, because of it. Because of me."

Draagh grunted. "How do you bear it? This Voice? This punishment? The loss of her?"

"I don't. But if I ever have a day to pay my _Master_ for what he made me, he'll regret it dearly."

Draagh sighed, nodding. "One day you might have your chance, Ushatar. But know you've won yourself a true place in my clan. If the battle comes to us, I will stand beside you with my sword, and we'll give the Orc-slavers such a bite as they'll never forget. Get better now, against that day."

"Yes sir—Draagh. I will."

The clan leader left, and Ushatar lay back. He sighed, and closed his eyes to flashes of gutted and splayed white-skins and dripping blood, and the raging stiffness between his legs that would probably never know relief again. As the day went on, the Voice grew worse

The next two days were a vicious battle. At times Ushatar was terrified of what he'd do to any creature that entered to cave, and he roared for Brodha to stay out when she tried to tend him. He curled his broken body up, deliberately inflicting stabs of pain on himself to teach himself that he was no longer a mindless warrior in the wizard's army. But somewhere there was a great battle, and Ushatar could _smell_ the blood, the fear, he could even taste the alluring scent of _sharlobu_ hiding in terror from an Uruk-hai onslaught. He groaned and growled, desperate to join it, fighting himself, even wondering in his darkness where his _tarka_ was to soothe the fiendish burning ache. But when he strained, sick with himself but desperate, and when he caught her scent in the cave, it cooled him. Incredibly, it pushed the evil away, smothered the longing to hurt.

Ushatar conjured a picture of her body swollen with his whelp, as he'd seen some of the females in the cavern. He conjured a picture, wholly from his imagination, of her smiling at him, and he held it as his Uruk-hai brothers raged against the fortress of Helm's Deep, feverish with battle lust. None of the Uruks could know that Saruman was defeated and the pits—and everyone in them who couldn't escape—drowned by the river. But the wizard was all the more defiant as his final battle, his most desperate plot, unfolded. His mental command of the Uruk-hai, from Gharsh-il to the lowliest _pizurk_, had never been more ruthless. Ushatar lay in the tiny cave, the hearth fire long gone out, digging his claws into his palms and arms and forcing himself to lie as still as possible on his blanket. Finally, at the next dawn, Ushatar lost consciousness, his feverish mind collapsing.

That afternoon, Ushatar felt the cool on his skin before he opened his eyes. Afternoons were quiet time in the Orc's hidden home. No one hunted when the sun was out and full, and families tended to rest or eat together. _Dagu_ played, the young rowdy males getting in trouble when the oldest Orc males liked to sleep. Ushatar could hear excited youthful voices nearby. He could smell meat roasting. He could hear the faint lull of a thousand hushed, warm domestic conversations.

But there was no Voice.

Ushatar lay still and silent for a long time, not trusting it. He listened so hard he could hear soft female laughter, and gentle water rippling through hard rocks. He sighed hard and slipped his palms over his face, smiling finally. It was over for now. Ushatar couldn't tell if the battle had been won or lost, or if the Master was raging or triumphant. In fact, it was almost the same as the night when his penmates had been slaughtered, and Ushatar's mind had briefly licked at the abyss. There was just _nothing _there.

Nothing but Ushatar.

And still he lay quiet for a while, unsure of what to do. He wanted to be around others, but he didn't feel welcome anywhere. He decided to thank Brodha for her kindness, and check on Urauk. "Damn," he hissed, remembering how he'd roared at Brodha to stay away from him, afraid he'd lash her throat with his claws seeking bloody relief.

He climbed slowly to his feet. His head was sore but not too dizzy, and his ribs didn't bother him terribly. But the spike of pain in his back, the stab down his leg, was a misery. And Brodha had said he might have to learn to live with it. Ushatar grit his jaw, determined to do just that. He hobbled forward, forcing a stronger stride each step. He ducked carefully out of the cave, and almost tripped over something at his feet.

Ushatar couldn't believe his eyes: Brodha had left a pair of leather trousers and a warm wolf-fur vest. He'd never had any clothes before, save the standard Isengard black tunics given to the _pizurks._ Slipping back into the cave, he pulled the pants on and laced up the front, tossed his old tunic to the floor, and put the vest on. It was a little small, but soft, and good-smelling. And she obviously wasn't pissed at him for roaring at her. Ushatar grinned, and hurried as much as he could to Aarth-Anghum's _dar._

But then he smelled _her_ fresh, alluring scent before he even got close_._ Of course, why would she be alone? He stepped foward, and realized that she was in Urauk's _dar_, probably with his new mate. Ushatar swallowed the hot jealousy, and went towards the left, to Aarth-Anghum's. Brodha emerged from the tent just as Ushatar arrived, and she searched him with a piercing gaze.

Brodha nodded tightly. "Beat it, didn't you? And on your feet. Good. You're just in time to have a bite to eat. We've some company, my daughter and her mate and _dagu._ Here, let me introduce you."

She led Ushatar inside the warm _dar,_ where five pairs of Orcish eyes in shades of yellow and even deep red-orange looked up, and the five Orcish smiles beamed. Aarth-Anghum rose and clasped Ushatar's arm in kinship. "Ushatar. The half-Orc who saved my Urauk," Aarth-Anghum said proudly.

Ushatar wasn't sure how to react in an intimate social setting; though he was extremely nervous and sure they smelled it, he decided to follow Aarth-Anghum's lead, not looking at anyone until they were introduced, and when they were, trying to arrange his features in a friendly way.

"My daughter Ransorr and her mate Huruz," Aarth-Anghum indicated a female who looked everything like him, small and brown and lean, beside a hefty mature Orc with midnight skin and pale eyes, short wild hair and an iron bar through the bridge of his nose. But what caught Ushatar's eye more than anything, absorbing his entire focus, was the tiny Orc Ransorr held in her arms. An Orc only a little bigger, a female with long black braids and bright eyes, sat at Ransorr's feet, her eyes wide on Ushatar.

Huruz grew uncomfortable immediately at the attention paid his mate and offspring, but Aarth-Anghum quickly told him, "Ushatar comes from Isengard, and he was born as he is, fully grown. This is likely his first time being so close to _dagu._"

"Even seeing them," Ushatar breathed, tearing his eyes away to face Huruz. "You are very lucky. All of you—So very lucky."

The little girl tugged on Ransorr's hand, big eyes still on Ushatar. "Is he sad?"

"Hush," Ransorr whispered, tapping the little lass on her hand.

"He's hungry, more like," Brodha said gruffly. "So let the big _baalak _sit down and fill his empty belly."

Ushatar found that the struggle to relax lessened the longer he sat with Aarth-Anghum's family. Huruz was satisfactorily appreciative of Ushatar's retelling of his battle with the troll, and the little Orcess squealed when Ushatar spoke of being dangled from his braids by the big reeking _hornfik_. It was so strange—and so precious—to be in company without wondering where the knife would come from, or when he'd get jumped. _How the fuck did I ever like that life?_ Ushatar thought with disgust. _That life is fit only for slaves. I have a choice now, if I will fight or if I will make friends. And maybe one day, I won't always be watching my back around everyone._

Ushatar was bewitched by the baby Orc. He couldn't believe anything could be so small. He tried to imagine how tiny his own _dag_ was now, in _her_ belly. He tried to hide his soul-sucking sorrow at the knowledge that she despised the little one, and probably would forever. All the Orcs picked up on it, even the smallest.

_But she won't keep him from me, _Ushatar told himself firmly. _I will have my little one, I will raise him… Or her?_ Ushatar knew that whelping a female was condemned in Isengard. The wizard had no use for female Uruk-hai, or for anything that might lead to tenderness in his slaves. And so the females were destroyed as soon as it became apparent they _were_ female, and never got to be born. How much more precious, then, would a female be?

_My _dag,_ male or female, will be born free. And I will hold it close, and never let anything hurt it._

Still, even that joy seemed hollow without the _tarka. _When Urauk came later, a wide grin on his face and his Daumani by the hand, Ushatar could smell his _tarka'_s lingering scent in the air. Urauk embraced Ushatar and called him _brother_, and it was wonderful, but it didn't mend the aching tear in his heart.


	27. Chapter 27

"Here, Tara, hold the babe for me, will you?" Nemlii asked, watching Tara with searching eyes. It was time, Nemlii thought, to face the problem, and hopefully begin to sort it out. For days now they'd watched their new friend sinking again. Orc babies—_baalak_ babies, too, it seemed—grew fast. A Man or a Dwarf's child wouldn't start to show so early, but there was a small rise on Tara's belly and it seemed to be tearing her mind apart. Maybe if she got to know some little _dagu_, she'd want her own? It had been that way for Nemlii: millennia of prejudice didn't just unbind itself overnight, no matter how gruffly solicitous Daghri had been those first years. It took playing with the little ones to make her accept her own.

"Oh—Nemlii, really, I don't know how—"

"What? Never held a babe? What about in Osgiliath, didn't you have family?"

Tara gave a grim, joyless laugh. "I had a Da, Nemlii. He beat the piss out of me at every available chance. My mother couldn't take it, ran off when I was little. I can't remember her. I wasn't a nice girl either, I wish you all would see that. When my Da died… well, I said I'd never live with anyone ever again, never marry, never give anyone a chance to boss me and steal from me and hit me. I had no idea what was… what was coming for me, a thousand times worse."

Nemlii frowned and sat beside Tara, holding one of her Orcish grandbabies in her lap. The little one, a boy, was purring and squealing softly, playing with Nemlii's plump fingers. It had Daghri's dark brown skin, like both of Nemlii's sons, but the eyes seemed lighter, less Orcish. Tara, Nemlii noted, kept her eyes turned away, her iron jaw clasped hard.

"You're a nice girl, Tara," Nemlii said quietly. She wasn't so sure anymore that it was the _baalak_ caused all the Numenorian's problems. At least one of those hard walls around her heart had been thrown up long before.

"No," Tara insisted, "Really, I'm not. I'm a thief. I robbed my own friends blind, often after they invited me in and gave me my only meal for the day. And my friends were whores, brothel-keepers."

Nemlii was determined not to show her shock. "And this Da of yours?"

"Like I said: he beat on me, when he wasn't face down in his own puke. He was a drunk, a bad drunk. Couldn't stop the seizures without a bottle, and I was the one got it for him. When he died, a frail thing covered in his own foulness, I got drunk myself, had a party with my friends. I'm not sure what they—what they did with him, when the cart came around for the dead. I left a note for the gravediggers, and a coin—that I picked from a woman's coat—but I didn't want nothing to do with it. You see? Not so nice. The only thing I valued was my freedom, and now it's gone. Even though I have my own little place…" Tara curled her lip in disgust. "Now… Now I'm still bound up, worse than ever before, because it's _inside_ me. It will need me, and I don't want to be needed."

"Even if it wasn't Ushatar's?"

Tara, shuddering, shook her head. "Especially his, but anyone else's would be the same: I don't want no brats. I don't want no _mate._ There was a boy…" Tara swatted her tears furiously. "A boy who liked me, a soldier, took me for a bite to eat each of those last days. He asked me, could he carry my favor into battle? Some token, a scarf, a kiss? Rich, too, believe it or not! From a fine old family in Minas Tirith. And I kept putting him off. He's probably dead now. All he wanted was a kiss… But I wasn't good enough for him, and even if I was, I wouldn't have wanted anything with him, so he could turn on me the second I was bound to him. So I let him go to his death, his love unreturned, and I went to mine."

"Oh, Tara," Nemlii whispered, smoothing the girl's thick, shiny black hair down her back. The girl fussed and grabbed her hair back over her shoulder, smoothing it furiously over the _baalak'_s mark on her throat. "Here, now, girl, you're tough, you know you are. You just have to face facts. You can't get _un-_pregnant, not by any way known to Orcs, nor to Dwarves. Men do those things, but we surely don't. Your baby will love you, Tara, don't you see? And it won't be as bad as you think. You don't change into a different person, you don't lose yourself. You get a bigger self, a bigger heart."

"I don't _have_ a fucking heart, Nemlii. Why don't you get it?"

Furious, Tara forced herself to stand. It was only getting worse, the dizziness, the sucking fatigue. And more than anything, Tara wanted _sunlight._ In fact, she was sickening faster without it, and her body couldn't make full use of her food without the nutrients the sun produced in her. But it was not allowed: females didn't go up top by themselves, and Orcs didn't go out in the sun. And even if Tara wanted to break the rule, she didn't have the strength. So, she was doomed to darkness and doomed to hated motherhood. Tara began to wonder if she was finally defeated. Now that the thing was _growing_, showing a little, it was far more real. Her breasts, too, ached and swelled. And everything would only get worse with each passing day. _Maybe there's no way out but a knife._ _Face facts, kill myself and the _thing_ all at once, and be done with it._

"I have to go, Nemlii," Tara cried, her eyes flushed with tears. She looked down on her new friend, who probably hated her now and would count her silver as soon as Tara left. Tara couldn't avoid seeing the bright-eyed little Orc baby in Nemlii's lap, its tiny brown hand peeking out of the fur blanket to squeeze and suck Nemlii's fingers. Rolled by nausea and deep, deep shame, Tara made her unsteady escape, feeling Nemlii's shocked eyes on her back.

As if she was cursed, her ears picked up the sound of impish laughter, and when she followed it she saw _him_ down by the pool, chasing with a limping gate after tiny little Orcs, his arms out wide to catch them, his playful growls carrying across the cavern. _Azat-horn_, they called him now, after the troll: Monster-slayer. The ridiculousness of _that_ made Tara want to puke. A little Orcess with flying braids squealed in fearful delight as the Uruk swept her up and swung her about. Furious, Tara spat on the ground, and picked a determined, but shaky, path to her small cave.

She stoked her hearth fire and curled up in her furs. A small voice whispered in her heart, _he would raise the baby, he would love it, give it to him._ Tara sneered brutally and covered her ears with her hands, as if to block it out. She was _not_ willing to give her body over to another creature, let it feed off her and break its way out of her, and then have the gall to cling to her for nourishment, sucking on her breasts like some besotted customer from Gwenna's. The very idea was revolting. She reached for one of her new skinning knives and pressed it to her wrist, feeling the sting, the tearing of flesh, the warm trickle of blood.

Sobbing, Tara threw the knife away. _Coward!_

_Later,_ she thought. _I'll do it later, when it gets bigger, closer to the time._ It had been early February, likely, when the thing was made. The Uruk'd caught her smack between her bleeding times, so most likely… Tara counted on her shaking fingers. It was mid-March now, or thereabouts, so she had until November to get up the courage and do herself to death.

They would _not_ leave her alone, these Orcs. Brodha came a-frowning, to stuff her up with food and pepper her with questions. "I'm tired, Brodha, just tired," Tara lied. Faalca was not so easily deceived, and Tara had to bind her wrist up hard for fear they'd all smell her fresh blood. She had a wild, momentary fantasy that her blood would trigger them to fall on her, get the job done for her. But infuriatingly, all these female Orcs had for her were kind words and fresh meat, and invitations to come and share in the daily work of the cavern. But it was impossible to be around them… if anything, they seemed so damned _good._ All told her it wasn't the thing's fault, all pushed her to _love_ it like they'd love their own little ones. They made her feel horrified with herself, for if they knew what she planned to do, to herself and the little _dag_, they'd surely see her for what she was: poor quarter trash, more a monster than Men thought Orcs were.

Tara lay in her cave for a few days, only coming out to perform the necessary functions like cleaning out her night pot, and gathering water from the stream. When she got tired of her own filth, she decided to go to the hot spring—by herself, in the dead of night, when most of the male Orcs would be cavorting in the upper hall or running in the moonlight, and most of the females napping. No one would be at the springs. She brought the herbal rinse Brodha had given her, and making sure that no one was watching her, Tara walked slowly down the dark tunnel to the hot springs. She lit the torch, and went to sit on one of the low, slick, shiny rocks, dangling her legs in the hot water. She took a rag and began to wash—slowly, under her loose gown, not for modesty but because the sight of her breeding body made Tara sick.

But the rushing of water down from the ceiling made soothing noise, and the hot water was inviting, especially as she bent low and poured it over her scalp. She thought briefly about losing her leather dress and slipping in.

And then she felt someone behind her, as surely as if they had tapped her on the shoulder. Tara turned with wild eyes, and saw Ushatar leaning against the rock wall, his head tilted curiously as if he read her thoughts, his eyes full of pain, as if he knew what she meant to do. Tara sucked her breath, her heart pounding in sudden fear.

He approached her, his stride still full of wild, horrifying power, even if his fight with the troll had crippled him somehow. He climbed up onto the rocks beside her, perching like a feral thing while she stared at him in appalled anger and fear.

"You're not all right," Ushatar said quietly. "You're not with your friends so much anymore. And… I can _feel_ it… the sorrow."

Her eyes flushed with tears. "And you're _surprised? _What did you expect?"

He lowered his gaze, nodding. "I expect you to hate me. Not yourself. Not your friends."

"_You_ don't get to talk to me like that!" Tara raged.

Ushatar grit his jaw, but then his nostrils flared, and he snapped his gaze at her cut wrist. "What happened? Who hurt you?"

Tara clasped her hand over the clumsy, aborted slash. "Nobody hurt me. It's nothing. Just… fuck off! Go be a _hero._" She drew up all her iron will not to sob before him.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck," Ushatar whispered in sudden comprehension, taking her hand, inspecting the cut. "What are you _doing?_ You long for death? Even now?"

"What do you think!? I can't _stand_ it anymore…"

"But I don't bother you. And you have friends who care for you—"

"That what you call it? Pushing their little imps at me, hoping I'll coo and fuss like they do? If they knew—If they knew who I _really_ was, what I _really _thought, they'd call _me_ the monster! They'd never look at me again! Dammit, I want to _strangle_ the baby! It's all I think about! You'd just better lock me up again, you bastard, because I'm not your little sweeting, singing songs and cuddling babies… I can't—I won't—" Tara dissolved into sobs.

She felt Ushatar slip closer, as if he'd take her in his arms, but the threatened embrace never came. Instead, he smoothed his finger over the slash on her wrist, and then released her. "Calm down," he breathed.

"Did you _fucking hear me? _I want to strangle your baby! I want to drown it!" Tara blazed at him, full of rage, furious that he wasn't grabbing her up and chaining her, before she could act on her threats.

"Yeah, I heard you," he said quietly. "And you're far from a monster. But I think I know a little how you feel. You hate what I left in you."

"How the fuck could you know anything about it?"

Ushatar sighed, closing his eyes, pinching them shut. "The place we were… It wasn't any good for anyone, all right? I had enemies, nasty fuckers who were jealous that I had you. One morning they got at me. Made me… shamed. I shouldn't tell you that, but fuck it, there it is. I got bitched."

Tara was shocked into silence, so astounded that she momentarily forgot her sorrows. "_You_ were _raped?_ Who the fuck—? But you're a _brute."_

"In a prison full of brutes. It doesn't matter, though. I mean, I'm shamed, that's forever. If anyone but you knew…! I'd be finished. But you already think I'm shit, and I'd rather have you see that… that you're not so different, and what you feel… Others have felt it before. But please, I beg you, please don't tell anyone else."

Stunned, Tara shook her head. "No..." she breathed. "I won't tell anyone."

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rushing water. Tara picked at the cut on her wrist, unable to make sense of her reeling emotions.

"Don't kill yourself, little girl. Not on my account. Not for shame. And the little one, my baby—"

"It's not just that," Tara interrupted, her voice no more than a whisper. "I never wanted to be a mother. I never wanted to be married. I just wanted to live alone. I was so _glad_ to be alone… And now I'll never be alone again."

"I thought—I thought Men, the daughters of Men, were glad to mate and bear young."

"Oh, most are, for certain," Tara said. "But I had a shit life. My mother ran off, my Da was a monster. A drunk—too much of our type of _akrum_—who beat me, taught me to steal for him. I was a thief, a criminal. I'd been in jail before."

"So why not mate young? Run away from him. Have your mate kill him. I would kill him, if you like. For hurting you."

Tara managed a small cold laugh. "I bet you would, but you're too late. The drink did him in. But not before… I couldn't mate, as you say, because I didn't want a _new_ Da. And I didn't want… well, I didn't want no one sweating on top of me. Seemed to me then there wasn't nothing more disgusting. I was… oh, must have been eight or nine… One night, my Da came in more gone in his cups than usual. Didn't know who or what I was, only that I had a… well, you get it. Climbed on top of me in bed, started feeling around—"

"He _fucked_ you!?" Ushatar raged. "His own _dag_?"

"No! Quiet down!" Tara looked over her shoulder, hoping that no one had heard _that._ "_You_ of anyone should know well enough that he didn't, that no one did _that_ before _you_. I kneed my Da in his parts and ran away, and spent the next few years ducking him when he was like that, and sleeping when he was in the tavern—or the gutter—or passed out. But that about did it for me, as far as Men went. Until you came along, and proved that Uruks were just as foul."

"Wish to hell I hadn't," Ushatar whispered. "I wish I ran away with you instead. I didn't know it either, but it _does_ feel nice… to be touched nice, by someone who cares about you. Not just fucking, I mean. Just being cared for."

"Well I don't want to know nothing about it. I just mean to tell you… It's not only you—though you were fucking monster to me, you fucking ruined me—it's also that I never wanted this at all, not even with my own kind. And _that's_ why I can't face my friends, even though they're actually really wonderful. I'm wrong-minded. I'm a female who dreams of killing her own young."

Ushatar caught her gaze for a long while, and there was empathy in his eyes. It made Tara uncomfortable, and she looked away, to the steam coming off the water.

"You can't kill the little one," Ushatar murmured. "It's about as wrong as can be. But I'm not calling you wrong, understand me well. Like I said, I know how you feel. And I know, also, how it feels to want to do evil, to want it with all your heart and mind and every breath in your body, but at the same time to _know_ it's wrong. So you tear yourself up, going back and forth drooling for it and yet loathing yourself for wanting it. Holding yourself down so you don't do it."

"Throwing the knife at the wall," Tara whispered.

"Yeah, just so. But don't do it, _ambal_, please don't do it. Fight the darkness. It's hard as _fuck_, but you feel better each time you resist it. You win, and it heals you. One day at a time."

Tara flushed, knowing that _ambal_ meant _pretty_ or _beauty_, and she felt a shiver of fear."Don't go thinking…"

"I know. You fear me still, you hate me still. You will stay in your own cave. But maybe you will let me take you outside tomorrow? It's a long, long climb. I'll carry you to some nice spot—I know some beautiful places—and then I'll keep my mouth shut, unless you wish for talk, and I'll keep my eyes open for danger while you lie in the sun."

Tara eyed him desperately. "I can't stand this dark all the time, but…" She shook her head, the old fear coiling around her like the wet, cold hands of a ghoul.

"Let me do this one thing for you," he said, his voice unsteady. "I won't betray you. I won't make you regret trusting me, for this one thing."

Tara swallowed, and then she nodded. "All right. But it don't mean nothing. I told you how I feel, and now you know it ain't just you, Uruk, it's me. Some people aren't meant for… that life."

"Just a little sun," Ushatar said. "Nothing more."

"Tomorrow, then," Tara said, pushing herself up. He made to help her walk, to hold her arm, but she flashed a lethal iron glance at him, and he smiled softly and put his hands up, like a criminal at the point of the Constable's sword. "You made me feel better, you bastard," she spat, but there was no resentment in her voice. In fact, she felt as though she'd been yanked back from the abyss. She might make it through another day. She might resist the horrific desire to kill herself, in order to kill her child. He had helped her find some strength again. She had laid the worst truth of herself before him, and he'd met her eyes without condemning her, and told her she could fight.

"My name's Tara," she told him softy, "But don't go calling it too much. I don't forgive you for what you did to me."

"Tara," he whispered, and then he nodded. For some reason Tara couldn't fathom, it looked like he had tears in his eyes. Well, tough for him, Tara thought, hitching her long skirt a little in her hand, and walking down the path before him.


	28. Chapter 28

Ushatar's belly was full of nerves as he approached her cave, a fur blanket thrown over his shoulder. _Did I _really_ tell her about Dolpan_?_ What the _fuck_ was I thinking!? _The shame of it was nearly enough to make him turn around and hide in a hole for the rest of his days.

If he wasn't desperate to see her, that was: to breathe her in, and best of all, to feel her warm, light body safe in his arms. He'd spent the night in a panic that she'd hurt herself while alone.

But oddly enough, it had also seemed to _help_ her to know of his shame. It had brought her guard down for a moment, and she'd been a little less afraid, and angry. And she had never seemed more open to him when she swore to him that she wouldn't betray his humiliating secret to the others. It was worth it, then, provided she didn't think he was a _loburz_ now, on top of everything else.

"Tara," he called softly, and a moment later she came ducking out of the tiny cave. Ushatar sucked his breath: she was _beautiful._ Her black hair was long and loose; it tumbled over her fringed leather dress and the shawl of brown fur wrapped around her shoulders. She worried her full rosy lower lip a little between her flat white teeth, and her grey eyes were full of trepidation… but also, excitement. As ever, her arms were wrapped protectively around her body. She gave a little shrug.

And then, incredibly, her pretty lips curled into a small polite smile, and he was knocked off his feet. Ushatar could smell her sharp fear rising, but she was brave, and it made his heart ache.

She shook her head demurely. "I don't know. I don't know if I can do this. With you."

"You've got my word, Tara. And if that isn't enough, take this. Aarth-Anghum made it for me, but you can carry it." Ushatar unbuckled a sheath from his sturdy brown leather belt. He was proud of the knife, a hooked black dagger with a carved bone handle. The name _Azat-horn_ was carved down the side in angular letters, and the other side had an incredibly detailed carving of a raging troll. Aath-Anghum gave it to him only the day before, for it had taken a full two weeks to make.

Tara took it in her small hands, testing the weight appreciatively. She took the blade out of the sheath, her grey eyes wide in their setting of thick black lashes. "What does the writing mean?"

Ushatar shrugged a little, embarrassed. With the Orcs, he'd felt proud, but he was afraid it was too bloody for her. "It's just a name they gave me."

"_Azat-horn_. I've heard. That was a good thing you did, Ushatar, saving Daumani's mate. And this is a beautiful weapon." She carefully buckled the sheath on her braided belt.

"Don't get too cozy with it," he said, daring a small smile. "I'll get you a pretty blade of your own, but not just yet."

Tara looked up in suprise, her lips parted beautifully. "I'm not gonna do that," she whispered, eyes wide. "I'm not. I thought about it. I don't want to."

Ushatar nearly died in relief, but he managed not to fall to her feet in gratitude. "I'm glad, Tara," he said quietly, showing her a calm face. "Ready?"

"I'm gonna walk," Tara said firmly. "I thought about that, too. You can help me, I might need to lean on you and take rests, but I want to try, at least. I don't really want to be carried."

"All right," he said, biting his tongue. It made her angry when he hovered too much, he remembered that. But if she needed him, if she asked him, he would sweep her off her feet.

He couldn't _believe_ he was walking with her. When she got tired, she leaned against the wall, the torchlight flickering on her face, her little hand to her heart. Her face still looked chalky-pale, there was still darkness under her eyes, and the lack of sun hadn't helped. But she smiled a little, looking up at him with the grey eyes that couldn't fail to hook him. "I'm getting there."

"You'll make it."

"So what happened to you? Your leg troubles you."

"S'nothing. Stupid troll. He threw me like I was a little whelp, and I hit my back on some sharp rocks. It makes my leg hurt when I move it."

"Damn, that sounds bad, Ushatar."

"You don't wanna be carried, right?"

He was blessed by her smile, and she stood up, ready to go again.

But when she stepped out into the sun, he almost melted for her. She sighed and closed her eyes and tipped her small face to the sky, smiling. She stretched her fingers out and stood into the wind, her thick black hair lifting off her neck. She was tired now, and she took his arm for the rest of the way. He knew that made her a little afraid, and so he used every last bit of body language and signaling he could think of to show her he had no violent intentions, hoping feverishly she could pick up on it.

Ushatar led Tara up one of the hunting trails, but then turned off into the woods to return to a place he'd only seen in twilight. It was a small promontory a short climb above the ground, with a sheer cliff-face behind it: no way for anything to drop down onto them. Yet there were a few rough firs, and enough little nooks against the cliff to hide in, should he need to hide her from danger. As Ushatar thought, in the daytime the place was awash with sunlight and cold, fresh wind. He lifted Tara lightly, quickly, and carried her up the steep trail. He lay his fur blanket over the snow, and sat down beside her.

What did it cost her to sit beside him? Ushatar smelled a light scent of fear, he saw the quickness of her eyes. But after almost a full moon underground, and then Isengard before that, Tara was overwhelmed with joy for the sun and sky. Her entire face shown with it, and Ushatar realized then that she wasn't just beautiful but radiant. He was sure he didn't deserve to be beside her, and yet he could be no where else ever again.

"What was it like there for you?" Tara asked, and Ushatar knew at once she meant Isengard.

"Uhmm," he murmured, stalling. "Well… I slept in a cell like- but with forty-nine other Uruk-hai."

"Your battle brothers?"

Ushatar laughed darkly. "Uh… No, not really. Wasn't like that, in Isengard. There were some… all right Orcs, and a few Uruk-hai, but I had to watch my back every moment."

"There were many fights," she said. The wind caught her hair, blew it back. Ushatar saw his mark and his breath quickened.

"There were fights all the time. Nothing better to do, I guess. It'd be bad, too, because the guards wouldn't unlock the gate. Those fuck—those Uruks could go all night long. And if you got pulled in—or, um, jumped in—you had to fight like a devil to stay on top. Get sucked to the bottom you're done fifty different ways. Well, forty-nine, I guess."

He heard a soft catch of breath in her teeth. She did not look at him. "Rape, too?" she asked, refusing to let her voice quiver.

Well, he coud be strong too. "Sure. A lot. But only that one time—um—"

Ushatar switched his eyes to her, and she nodded, sparing him. Which, he thought, he surely didn't deserve.

"Was that why you were locked away in punishment?" she asked, surprising him.

Ushatar felt his chest tighten, just thinking about it. He clenched his fist a little and said, "I killed the ones held me down. The one that—Dolpan—he got away. And then he ratted me out for killing, and I got fifteen days in the _dar-daghum_. That's when you got sick, and those fuckers—sorry—they told me they were doing stuff to you, then they were gonna kill you and feed you to me, shit like that. It was a little box of stone and I couldn't move, I was in the dark, and I couldn't do anything to stop it. When I got out, I took you and ran."

Her breath quickened as he spoke, and Ushatar said, "I didn't mean to remind you of it."

Tara closed her eyes, searching for peace. She shook her head, as if shaking it away. But her arms circled her belly again, as if she couldn't make up her mind to let it go or keep it.

"It's a lot better here, right?" he asked hopefully. Still nothing. "Do you like the Orcs now, a little?"

Nothing. Ushatar's heart shattered. "How did I fuck up, Tara?" he asked her softly. "I mean, other than everything… Did I say something bad just now?"

She sniffed a little, wiped at her eye and tried to pretend she was fixing her hair, which broke his heart in its sweetness.

"Ushatar," Tara said quietly. He loved the way his name rolled off her tongue. "I'm not mad at you right now. Not for talk. It's a lot for me to hear, that's all. I asked, you answered. And you can say _fuckers_ with me. I thought you'd seen that of me by now."

Tara turned to him then, and _smiled_, and Ushatar's breath ran out in a ragged sigh of relief. "I like the Orcs," she said, her voice suddenly full of warmth. "They're far different from my own people, and I understand these folk are under law and most are not. But they've been kind to me. They've helped me get better in a way my people wouldn't have. And they love life, and their families… and the little _dagu._ I am sorry that…" she looked anxiously to the east, where even now it seemed there was a swelling smudge of darkness, a mar on the sunny day. She whispered, "I am sorry their kind—your kind—are enslaved by _that_. I am sorry he made you, and bent you to his wickedness without giving you a say."

Ushatar wanted to bring her down to the ground at that moment. He wanted to run his hands over her hips and breasts, he wanted to brush her lips with his fingertips and breathe in her breath. He wanted her to take him in and hold him inside her; he wanted to claim her and hear her moan his name, as Urauk whispered that Daumani had when he marked her the first time. Ushatar caught his breath—somewhat—and told her, "I don't want to talk bad—fuckers—in front of you, Tara. I don't want to talk of bad things with you."

But this displeased her, and her smile was whisked away. He'd gone too far. Ushatar wondered if maybe she'd picked up on _his _thoughts. He knew when a female was fertile, and now after living with the Orcs he knew what one smelt like aroused, which was delicious and intriguing to Ushatar, who never knew a female _could_ want it. But now he feared, could Tara, could her kind, pick up on things like that?

She closed her eyes and put her face into the sun, and did not speak again, and then Ushatar carefully guided her home. He had to lift her down from the promontory, and she was tense and stiff in his arms. She took his arm and leaned on him—which he savored—but it was out of necessity. Then, when they reached the cave, she stopped and looked up at him.

She didn't seem to know what to say at first. Then, she pressed her lips together—a small, tight, nervous smile, nothing like the one she'd shown in the sunlight, speaking of liking Orcs. "Thank you, Ushatar. Truly. I needed this, like water."

"I will take you again, whenever you want. Tomorrow, if you like."

"Maybe not tomorrow," Tara breathed, shaking her head a little. "A few days… maybe. I don't know right now."

"S'okay," he replied softly. "Come on, let me help you back. You must be hungry and thirsty."

"Always," she said, frowning a little at the thought. Tears rose in her eyes, and she said, "It's so hard, Ushatar. I don't want to be pregnant. I don't want to give birth, I don't want a baby…"

"I know, Tara," he breathed, "I know and I'm so sorry..."

He smelled her fear, metallic on his tongue, and he realized that he'd never given any thought to how the _dag_ would come out. He cringed, looking at her little, breakable body. He put his arm around her back, lightly first, letting her feel the heat of him before he touched her, and he was a little frightened by how much she collapsed into him after the long walk. Wishing he could carry her, Ushatar guided Tara as gently—and supportively—as he could back down to the caverns. Dozens of pairs of eyes pretended not to look as Ushatar brought Tara into her small cavern. She sat quietly on her blankets as he stoked the fire, left to fetch her some of the fish he'd caught and prepared, then placed a plate and cup of cool water by the side of her bed.

"Your knife," she said, fumbling with the buckle. Suddenly, there was a frightening weakness in her fingers, bringing a frown to Ushatar's face that he quickly wiped away. "Thank you again," she said, smiling at him in an almost friendly, heart tugging way.

"I'll see you, Tara," Ushatar said, smiling softly, and taking his leave of her.


	29. Chapter 29

Tara wrapped up the carefully roasted quail, and, dizzy but determined, walked to Nemlii's _dar._ She bit her lips up when Nemlii's poked her head out of the tent, her blue eyes wide and searching.

"Feeling a little better, girlie?"

"I'm really sorry about running out like that…"

Nemlii smiled. "No harm done. Come in. The others are here already, doing their mending." She invited Tara inside the richly appointed _dar_ and spread her arm out. "See, we've piles of shirts and leggings and swaddling, if you've a mind to be occupy your hands."

"Sure," Tara said. "Nemlii," she whispered, "I—What I said—I'd never steal from you," Tara shook her head in desperation, tears in her eyes.

"Hush, child," Nemlii murmured, taking the bird. "I know that."

Tara sat down between Daumani and Faalca, who with Shari went silent, their eyes bouncing around in curious, silent messages.

"Well, I'll just come out and say it," Faalca decided. "What happened with the _baalak?_ You were gone a long while yesterday…"

Tara ducked her head and said, "We went out for some sunlight. I really, really needed it."

"Mmhmm," Shari purred. " 'Sunlight'."

"Shari!" Tara gasped, laughing a little and rolling her eyes at Shari, who turned everything into _that_. "Just sun, a little talk. Nothing… more." Tara would not tell her friends how Ushatar had described his dismal, brutal life in Isengard, which impossibly seemed more terrifying than her own short stay. Nor would she say how he was the only one who had heard her darkest thoughts, and _didn't_ react like she was insane or evil, but helped her catch her breath again.

"He was good to you?" Faalca asked warily, catching Tara in a sharp, curious gaze. Tara had the feeling that Faalca would give Ushatar a hell of a fight if she replied in the negative.

"Yeah," Tara said, meeting the Orcess's gaze and noddling. "Yeah, he was."

"So…" Nemlii asked, shuffling over and sitting on her stone bench. "You plannin' on seeing him some more?"

Tara looked at the four open, excited faces, and she laughed again, flushing to the tips of her ears to be the center of such attention. "You all are terrible! Listen, it doesn't mean anything, only that he, I guess, wants me to feel better. And maybe…Maybe he's not just as I thought he was. But it don't mean anything, I'm not gonna be bringing my stuff back into his little cave or anything, so don't go looking to plan a party."

Shari clucked her tongue in disappointment. "Dammit, and here I thought I'd have reason to put my best on again."

"I think you're next, Shari," Tara laughed, turning the tables. "I don't have to be an Orc to tell _you're_ ready to set up house."

Shari bit her bright pink tongue a little, excited, and said, "Well… There was _someone_ walking by the stream with my sire yesterday… I don't know what they talked about, though I almost fell through old Kaala's _dar_ trying to have a listen."

"Ask her who it was," Faalca grinned at Tara, nodding her sharp chin at Shari.

Tara had hardly opened her mouth before Shari gushed, "Draagh Durub's big son, Saalcaf."

But Tara did go back. Three days after she made things right with Nemlii, Ushatar came to get her again, while the clan was at its afternoon rest. This time, feeling more tired than usual, she let him carry her part-way up the tunnel, listening as he spoke softly of Brodha's family and laughed about the little _dagu_ who chased him around now, trying to make him play 'monster' and wrestle them. He told her of the new ways he was learning to hunt that didn't hurt his back and leg as much as running down game.

"Am I hurting you?" Tara asked suddenly, stiffening up in his arms.

"_Skai,_" he breathed softly. "Never. The day I can't carry you when you're tired is the day I jump off our cliff. I just want to last a while in the world, like Brodha tells me I can, so I don't overdo things like I would have before."

Tara bit her lip, feeling her heart flutter anxiously at the mention of _their_ cliff, and his insistence that he'd always be there for her. Still-he seemed determined to help her, and Tara felt herself trusting him somewhat, as terrifying as he still was to her.

He picked up his stride as they reached the cave mouth, and Tara sighed to see _light_ filtering into the darkness. "It's actually kind of nice to use my wits setting traps and such—"

Ushatar fell dead silent, stepping out into the day. Tara caught her breath, frowning. There was something wrong with the light. It was limpid, weak, and a sick yellow-grey, as if a violent storm was coming in, but many times darker. Tara could not be sure what light she saw wasn't some fell glow, not the good light of the sun at all.

He set her down immediately against the rocks. "I roar, I call you, I don't come back before you can count to fifty twice, you pick yourself up and _run_ back to the cavern, you understand me? I don't care if it's your last bit of strength, you _run._ And then you tell Brodha."

"Where are you going?" Tara demanded, wild. It was as if the evil light rung the courage right out of her. _Had I forgotten? Was I so stuck in my own troubles?_

"Up to the cliff to have a look!" Ushatar called, but he was already bolting, the pain in his leg be damned. Tara wondered briefly how he did that, turned off all pain no matter how brutal. And then she leaned back against the comforting mountainside and wrung her hands, counting softly until she saw him jumping, sliding, and running back down the tree-covered rise.

"Come on, Tara, gotta go up in my arms now, sorry," Ushatar swept her up in one motion and bound back down into the Mountain, the few torches flashing by in a dizzying blur. He ran her to his little cave, the one they used to share. Very few Orcs were up and about, but the ones who saw him looked at him curiously.

But he said nothing, sitting her on a new thick bearskin blanket and beginning to arm himself. Tara held his knife, but Ushatar, who'd wore his bow on their walk, grabbed a second and _third _quiver of arrows and slung them on his shoulder. He took the other knife she knew, from Isengard, and tucked it in his belt. He breathed, "_Bolk-izg dulug-izub, htol!"_ He pulled up two wooden spears off the floor, both fit out with iron spikes.

"Ushatar what the _fuck_ is happening?" Tara demanded, shaking.

He closed his eyes, shook his head a little. "Nothing's fucking happening, or at least it won't be happening anymore if it tries to come here. Here _ambal_, toss me my blade."

She threw the blade in its sheath unto Ushatar's outstretched palm. "The Power?" she whispered.

He said nothing, but his lips curled into a black sneer, flashing fierce white fangs, before he caught himself. He tightened his jaw, even as his lips quivered with hate. "It's not gonna come here," Ushatar said, forcing over a rage so black Tara had never imagined it, and she drew away slightly. Ushatar frowned, then dropped his voice to a murmur. "I'm gonna see the Durub now, see what he makes of it. S'all right, Tara. This's why Orcs put what's precious to them deep in the earth. You're safe here."

"Ushatar!" Tara hissed, but he shot away from her, leaving her in his cave. Tara touched her face with shaking fingers, as if reassuring herself she was still alive, still whole. The War was following them. It would come with its fire and its battle-crazed barbarians, its tormented slaves demanding relief in blood. Tara felt her body go liquid in terror, and fall apart, as if all her joints were trying to crawl to hiding in separate places. The _War_ was coming.

And, she realized somewhat belatedly, the father of her unborn child looked fit to run out and meet it.


	30. Chapter 30

"We will go to Ranash," Draagh Durub decided, pulling a blue tunic over fringed leggings and buckling on an iron scaled belt. Behind him, his shapely mate lay sleeping—naked—in the Durub's furs, a slick sheen on her smooth nut-brown skin and the hot scent of sex in the air. Ushatar kept his eyes on his new boots. "Ranash is my mate's mother. She will have wisdom for us. Then, we'll go to this cliff. If the Darkness is spreading finally, we'll see neither moon nor stars."

Ushatar wondered what the Durub's mate's mother could have to say about it, but he followed quietly. It felt strange to slip back into a soldier, following a superior on the eve of battle. But he had never, _never_ cared so desperately for the outcome. Today, as he carried Tara, her dress had lain flat on her belly, and there was a small but definite roundness there. And it somehow felt _better_ between them. Maybe not all the way: she was still afraid of him, and what he was, that was clear enough. But still, better.

There was nothing, _nothing_ in the world, that he would allow to hurt her again, not even himself. Not even the Dark Power.

Ushatar followed Draagh up the other side of the cavern, through a series of crystalline formations, towards the back where an old female Orc sat with her back to the fire. Her braids were a dirty-white color, and down over her shoulders like a young girl's, but frizzy and bound up in places with bones that looked suspiciously like fingers.

"It has begun," she said quietly. "Durub has come with the Isengarder to stand against the Spreading Abyss."

"How long do we have, Mother?"

Ranash moaned a little, rocked, and then went still. She stood up, slowly, turning around to show a dark, wrinkled face and terrifying white-blue eyes. Ushatar couldn't make out the difference between whites and irises, and pupils were non-existant. The old Orcess stalked her way over to a dark, pock-marked iron bowl that must have weighed at least as much as three swords, and lifted it easily in her frail hands. Whispering to herself in her own private tongue, Ranash swept past the males and disappeared into a cavern in the mountain.

Ushatar shuddered visibly in a rare moment of revealing himself.

"She will See the Enemy's movements if she can," Draagh explained.

"I don't—I don't like magic," Ushatar said roughly.

Draagh, anxious for an answer, didn't reply.

Ranash returned, her iron bowl full of water. She plunked it rather unceremoniously down on the ground and squatted before it, ignoring the males as she hissed and gazed into the bowl. Finally, she fell silent.

"The Eye is sure and strong, and many spears he has. He can crush any army, throw down any _dushatar, _he can bleed the heavens dry."

Draagh puffed out his chest, and looked at Ushatar as if to say, _the day I dread has come; let us face our doom together._

Ranash moaned softly, and let out a surprising cackle. "But he does not see the tiny bee at his back! And the King of Men has shown himself, wielding Sauron's Bane. Yet—" she turned her empty, unworldly gaze on the males, and Ushatar swallowed, standing straighter. "Beware the falling leaves. Many wolves will be hungry, and they'll find the drowned one and make him talk. Make ready, Durub. Battle comes to you."

Ushatar was glad to get the fuck away from the sorceress, and slightly unnerved to know of her existence. But he looked to the leader as they walked back and said, "They will attack in the autumn."

"Seems like it. Makes sense. The _tarku_ will fall first, I am told they are all but finished. You were right: Rohan was attacked, but they held fast at their fortress in the mountains. Which—despite the loss of you kind who fought them—is good for us now. All the _sharu_ will fight together against the Power, and perhaps it has more enemies it hasn't seen. Only after all these are defeated can it come for us."

"I knew they fell," Ushatar murmured. "I felt it. There will not be many of my kind left."

Draagh grunted sympathetically. "You are left, and you've made your first _dag_ already. More will follow. All isn't lost, Ushatar Azat-horn."

Ushatar allowed himself a small flash of joy, though he doubted _more would follow._ Draagh's mate had smelled delicious, but Ushatar only wanted Tara. And if she never let him have her again, there would be no more little Uruk-hai from him. _Enough that I have so much of her—more than I had hoped for—and that she's trying to accept my _dag_._ _But _damn,_I want her..._

Ushatar pushed those thoughts away. "I've not so much love for my fellow Isengarders, Draagh. What I think is that those who remain will join the Power, and we will fight them. I will slay every last Uruk who comes against us, Draagh Durub. My loyalty is here now, as a free Uruk, not a magic-bound slave."

"You told Brodha you no longer heard the Voice."

"It's gone, but I've not lost my desire to pay the Power back for creating it. But I need a sword, Draagh. I am a sword-fighter first."

"Then go to see Aarth-Anghum once we've told the others, and he will make you one. Ranash has magicked my blade: it will splinter in any other grasp. I will have her do the same for you, once the smith is finished. We will need your help, Ushatar. Especially if your own kind come."

"No magic," Ushatar said firmly, shaking his head. "I've had my fill of sorcery, sir—Draagh—and I want no more. I mean no offense."

"Very well, Ushatar. I will rally the Orcs: we'll need to get on a war footing, spend our days drilling, and begin to lay down rations and store away food, in case we are besieged."

The Durub gathered the male Orcs in the upper hall, and by now word of Ushatar's mad dash into the caverns, followed by his disappearance with the Durub, had spread around the clan. When the Durub, with Ushatar and his sons at his side, announced the spreaking Darkness a hush fell over the clan. Then, one by one growls broke out, until the entire hall was roaring with defiance. Ushatar felt a chill spread through him as he joined in the battle cry, and the old familiar fury roiled through him. Only this time, his enemy was not an innocent victim but a raging horde bent on destruction. Ushatar fought not for rewards of meat and _sharlobu_ and to soothe the Voice's maniacal, bloody fire, but to defend everything he cared for, and the free life he'd claimed for himself and the woman he adored. His roars ripped from his gut and tore from his throat, throttling the cavern with the intensity of his rage and love.

In the lower cavern, Gadhaal, the Durub's mate, gathered the females and children about her and told them that the Darkness was spreading. If the last defenders in the World fell, the Free Orcs had but a short while—a few turns of a moon—to be ready. "But we will be ready _every_ night and day!" she insisted. "If the enemy gets past our mates, our fathers and brothers and sons, then we will put the little ones in the back, in the springs and the little tunnels beneath them. Some of you will stay with the _dagu,_ in case we in the front should fall. And in those last moments, if they come, all of you must remember that we have vowed to live—and die—in freedom. We will _not_ let our young be taken into slavery."

Faalca slipped her hand around Tara's. Tara was about to faint. As her knees buckled she leaned into Faalca, and the strong Orcess put her arm around Tara's shoulders to hold her up. _The autumn,_ Tara thought. She'd be big, likely sick to her death, or just delivered. It was sick and cruel, Tara thought, that she should spend her days fighting to believe in the baby's innocence, fighting not to resent it for all it would do to her freedom and _was_ doing to her health, only to be faced with the possibility of having to kill it herself so that it didn't fall into the Enemy's ruthless grasp.

That night, as the Orcs milled about underground sharpening weapons and skills, shoring up their various armory made in the forge or taken as trophies from their enemies. Draagh, Saalcaf, and several other of the Durub's sons stood on the promontory, defiantly watching the encroaching blackness suck in the stars in an ever-Westward crawl. But Ushatar sat in his cave with Tara, obsessively checking his weapons while silent tears soaked her beautiful face. When he could stand no more of her sorrow, he crept slowly to her and sat beside her on the soft, thick fur. Her fear scented the air hard and sour and metallic, but for once he was not the cause of it. Looking down on her, he thought there would be nothing better in the world than to pull her dress off and take her in his arms, and defy death by the fireside. His body rushed to a painful, desperate response. He'd not gone so long without a _sharlob_ since his first victory as a true newborn, at but a month old. He absolutely _needed _her.

She looked up at him, all confusion. "I think I want the baby now," she stammered. "At least I don't—I don't want—To kill it, if it all goes wrong… I don't think I'll be able to. But I understand what Gadhaal means... Better than she does, maybe! I wouldn't want the—the baby—to live like we did— And I _won't_ go back! Ushatar: I _won't_ go back."

"No one is taking you _anywhere,_" he said firmly, tearing his eyes away to the fire. He exhaled softly, closing his eyes, hoping to push the fierce, wildly seductive combination of love, lust, and battle's eve fatalism away from him. "We'll give a good fight," Ushatar predicted, trying to think of plans, details, iron ring mail-joining and arrow-fletching, _not_ the warm scent of her, and her small body beside him. He had been surprised enough when she came to him, Faalca holding her hand, and asked to talk. If it killed him, he wouldn't betray that precious trust, those vulnerable eyes. "The Durub has plans, warriors, and these are his mountains. We stand a good chance."

"One thousand against the Host of Mordor?" Tara whispered, desolated. "Ushatar… How? It's over…"

_I would die tonight—if I knew she would live on—if she would let me have just one chance._

_Oh,_ _but she's terrified. And she said she _wants_ my baby!_

"Tara," he murmured, risking a look at her. She met his eyes, and hers were so hopeless—almost the way they looked once before, making Ushatar cringe. "Tara, I've given my word to Draagh Durub that I would stand and fight with him. But I'll tell him… He'll understand. I will take you away from here, Tara. I will keep you safe."

Hope sparked instantly in the iron depths of her eyes. "But where would we go? The Shadow will spread always…"

"Then we'd run ahead of it, for as long as we could. And maybe there are places for two—for three—to hide, where many would be noticed."

She broke her eyes away from him, but last he saw they were swimming with emotion. He could see the rising of her small, swelling breasts under her plain leather dress. Her eyes flickered closed, the long black lashes lying on ivory marble cheeks. He knew he'd crossed a line again, he'd brought his own desires too close to her and now she would pull away. But _fuck_ it ached, his heart even worse than his privates.

Then she looked back. Ushatar shifted his weight again, using his leg to block what would surely sicken and frighten her from her sight. She seemed relieved a little, as if she'd been waiting for any plan, no matter how desperate, to rally to. Her gaze even warmed—just a bit—and it made Ushatar's heart and breath gallop off together. "You swore fealty to him?"

Ushatar—facing a hopeless battle and enduring the raging of his almost feral instincts—couldn't help but smile at the way she seemed to be looking at _him_ for once, rather than just seeing the Uruk-hai who owed her his life in payment for brutalizing her. "I don't know what that means, _ambal._"

"Like… when a warrior swears to serve a king, and gives himself over to the king's service."

"Like the Master," he said darkly. "No, I would not bind myself to any Master again. I only meant to pay my debts, and be a… a friend."

"That's not what I meant," she said softly, sweetness rising in her voice. "A warrior swears fealty because he loves his king, because his king is good and fair, and so he gives his sword to the king's defense."

Ushatar was lulled by the beauty in her words, even the shapes her lips made as she spoke them. Under her spell, he'd no idea that his low, warm breath had turned into a deep, purring growl, a sound that no Orc female could fail to understand. He'd no idea his body, beckoned by her warmth, was leaning helplessly towards hers. "I swear fealty to _you_, Tara."

Her breath caught and she froze, and her eyes filled with betrayed tears. She grabbed her arms around herself, cringing away from him, wrenching her eyes away, her muscles clenching, and then she jumped to her feet. She tried to flee him but lurched dizzily, and leaned against the rock-wall, covering her face as she sobbed.

Ushatar jumped to her side. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Tara—I wasn't even thinking—"

"You want- You want to _fuck me!"_

_"_Tara... _shit..."_

"You think I could _ever_ do that again?" she cried furiously, shaking with terror. "If that's why you're being so damn nice to me you can just quit it! You just want to climb on top of me and pound away, tear me up all bloody— I can't even think or breathe from the pain—"

"No! No I don't want that at all! I don't want to hurt you, I swear, Tara, _please!_ Oh, fuck, _please_ hear me! Please! I don't want to hurt you, I'll _never_ hurt you again!"

She shook her head. "Then why did you _do_ that? Why did you _say_ that?"

Ushatar panted, desperate and confused. Finally he cried out, "Because I _do_ want you, Tara! So bad it kills me, but I will swallow it every day to make you happy! I want you for my own, Tara and there's _nothing_ I can do about it! I'm _bonded_ to you! But I'd rather fight it, fight my desire for you—to hold you and lay with you, not _rape_ you!—I'd rather fight it no matter how tough, just to spend _time_ with you… I like talking to you, I like helping you..."

She stared at him, full of tears and astonishment. But her lips quivered in terror.

"I just got a little lost, Tara," he whispered, hoping fiercely she would _see_ him. "I got a little lost, but I meant no evil, and you said no, and there's no harm done, please… Look what we face, Tara… Please don't run away from me again… I'd die a thousands deaths before I hurt you again. Can't you feel that _a little?_"

She gasped softly, covered her face for a moment. She was crying when she looked up at him, she nodded slightly. Ushatar sighed in desperate relief. "I don't want to run away from you, Ushatar," Tara breathed. "But I can't-"

Her words rocked him on his feet, and he could have wept for joy. Instantly, he was afraid he'd get carried away again, lost in her eyes and her voice. "Come on, Tara, let me take you to your little cave, so you can get some sleep. You have nothing to fear tonight, and your little body needs rest. I will stand guard for you."

Overwhelmed and exhausted, Tara agreed; but as beat down as her body was, she insisted on walking herself. Ushatar, head bowed humbly, walked along behind her, thinking of how perilously close he'd come to losing her.

In the morning Ushatar ran to the promontory, standing sentinel against the growing Darkness. Ranash had said it would take time for the armies of Darkness to reach their sanctuary, but Ushatar felt the darkness as his enemy's breath, and he couldn't stand the idea of it hissing over his very home unwatched. He was wildly furious with himself for frightening Tara with the intensity and truth of his desire, but the only thing he could think to do for her now was protect her.

A little after mid-day the first of the violent screams tore across the land and through Ushatar's entire being. The noise was deafening, and it shook the Uruk's very bowels. He collapsed on the promontory, holding his hands over his ears as wild, impotent rage howled liked a storm all around him. He could feel the terror of his fellows-the lask of the Uruks who gathered in Mordor-and suddenly a great hot wind, full of roaring defeat, blew through the Misty Mountains, felling trees and knocking Ushatar flat on his back. A spike of pain from the bone chip digging his spine shot through him and he lay shaking on the ground. The final split tore burning through his mind as the evil that had made him—and set its will upon him—thundered out of existence.

Ushatar couldn't wait until the pain left. Maybe it never would, maybe there would always be that hole where the part of him corrupted had been torn out as the Power died. He leaped down from the promontory, not feeling the spasms of pain in his back and leg, and he tore back into the Mountain. The upper hall was empty of course, it was daytime, but the forges were busy and down below, the Orcs worked together dragging stores of food into the claustrophobic tunnels where they would hide their young for the last stand.

"_The Power is defeated!_" Ushatar screamed, "_The Power is defeated!"_

At once cheers rang around him, and Orcs rushed to him demanding to know more. He tried to get to Tara, sitting with her friends loading dried meat and edible roots and bulbs into baskets, but the crowd thickened around him, exultant, the fear of the past day released with wild abandon. Brodha caught up Ushatar's hands and spun him in a little dance, and _dagu_ jumped around him, catching him in soft embraces. Hardened male Orcs sought confirming answers, and Ushatar gave what he could. Still, he pushed his way to Tara.

Finally he reached her, and Tara and her four friends stood up. Ushatar was wild with joy, but when he saw her face all that had passed between them stole his breath and he stared at her, numbed by her presence. He was afraid to fuck up again, show too much to her. "The Power is defeated," he breathed. "You are safe, Tara." _Our baby is safe._

Her eyes were full of tears, and some heady emotion stole her breath. For a moment, Ushatar was certain she'd throw herself into his arms in celebration, fear be damned. Then she turned and embraced Faalca, and he heard Faalca cry, "We're safe!"

"You're safe," Ushatar whispered, and then he backed away, and let Brodha's grandchildren pull him back into the crowd.

High at the top of the cavern, Ranash focused her opaque gaze on the Isengarder. In her vision she'd seen him running into the cavern, but he'd had a bloody sword in his hand, and nothing, nothing she'd seen since had made her feel like that vision of the future had changed.


	31. Chapter 31

"What does it mean, Faalca?" Tara murmured, scraping a simple flint blade over a deer hide from one of Ras's kills. For nearly a month, she'd been cool to Ushatar, watching him discretely as he went off to hunt, waiting for the moment when he got into a fight or hurt someone else, or acted like the brute she was terrified he was inside.

Faalca sucked her teeth softly in thought. "Directly, in your tongue, _udalgurz_ means to make two into one. For an Orc—or a _baalak_—it means a lifetime bond between a male and a female. It cannot be broken. Some say death cannot break it, but we do not believe in the Gods, whatever they wish to call themselves, because they betrayed the Orcs. So we don't expect an afterlife. But some say _udalgurzu_ can find each other in death, or the spirit of a dead _udalgurz_ mate will visit the bereaved living mate."

"You and Ras?"

"We have it. Nemlii and Daghri do not, but they are strong mates. And Shari and Saalcaf… they just want to fuck each other. Draagh and Galhaal, they are _udalgurzu _hard. And the _baalak_ has it for you, but you're not Orc-kind, so you can't feel it."

Tara swallowed. Faalca's words hit her hard. "When… when does it start?"

"Right away! Ras and I used to fight something vicious as _dagu,_ and everyone knew what we were. We were always competing, but there was more to it. We woke up earlier, inhaled our meat, did our chores as fast as we could to get _back_ to our fighting!" Faalca smiled almost wistfully, an odd look on her fierce features. "No one would understand me like Ras does. No one fits those missing spots like he does. And there are other benefits, too, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Ushatar… He was so _bad_ to me when he met me."

Faalca smiled softly. "What else did he know? You yourself say he came from the Darkness."

"But I don't understand, what changed so much? How could he want to hurt me then, and not now? If you say this bond happened when he met me?"

Faalca chided her gently. "I'm not Ushatar! You have to ask him."

"Faalca I _couldn't_. That would… I mean, I don't see him the same way… exactly anymore. I can't explain it but that his face don't mean the same thing—hurt—as it did then. I didn't really look at his face then, it was just _demon._ But it was bad, Faalca… I mean just so bad. So painful. Oh, damn—" Tara dropped her knife and wrapped her arms around her belly compulsively. She shook her head, determined to work through it. "There was a lot of blood, I mean _days_ of blood. Not just like the first time, when my old friends said it was normal to bleed a little… Do you even know what I'm talking about?"

Faalca nodded briskly. "Same for us. Just a little blood, not too much, but it is scary at first, and for you it must have been a thousand times worse. For me, looking at the _baalak..._ He's enormous. To be his… his slave… that would be a horrific thing."

Tara cringed, thinking of his big, brutal body, all she'd seen of him, something she tried to block out most of the time. Then she shook her head. "But it's all fucked up. He was a slave too, bad, _bad_. _Bad_ shit happened to him, and they made him do worse to others. Some of what he did… to me… was because of that."

She had to catch her breath, and Faalca just listened, scraping the fresh hide silently. Tara went on, determined to make sense of it: "He's so damned _sorry_ for it... I wanted to hate him, but I know it isn't pretending with him, I feel it in my guts: he's truly sorry. And we're… we're sort of the same, in a way, and… and it's so _nice_, to have someone to be totally… totally true with. I just… I don't get why he changed on me, from cruel to kind. That's what's tearing me up. And you say… you are sure, this bond he says he feels…"

"His scent changes, Tara," Faalca told her softly. "Lets the other females know, too. Shari was _pissed_ when Ushatar came in with you, and she wanted him bad, and then the wind changed and she caught it on the air that he was an _udalgurz._ Oh, it was funny, Tara!"

Tara let herself smile, imagining the lusty Orc wench. "She'll be happy, now, with Saalcaf, right?"

Faalca grinned naughtily. "He's got good thick legs, Tara, didja ever look? Big, big hands. And high status: some say he'll challenge for _durub_ when his sire dies, though I hope Draagh stays in this world for a good long time yet. But Saakaf is just her type of Orc."

Tara shrugged her shoulders tightly, letting the unbidden, cruel images pass unnoticed, refusing them. "What's with the _marking,_ Faalca?" she asked finally. "It hurts like hell, but you all are proud of it. It hurts so bad… I've seen yours, on your… your top… and around your thigh. You _let_ Ras do that to you?"

"_Let_ him?" Faalca laughed. "Oh, Tara… It's so _good._ Ushatar must just not know how to do it right! And of course we're proud! That's our _mates'_ marks. Like his _dagu_, the future of our kind, we're proud. It's the mark of his passion for me."

Tara sighed hard. "You make it sound so… easy. So _right._"

Faalca leaned over and kissed Tara's brow lightly. "Look, _sharlob_, I don't blame you. Ras made me bleed for days, I'd keep away from him too for a while. Let him know I wouldn't have it, you know? Don't mean I'd throw _Ras_ out, but perhaps our folk have different ideas about mating, and how to handle the rough bits. I'd wanna teach him, that he couldn't carry on like that and keep me both. You want Orcish advice? You take your time with the _baalak_, until you're ready to feel him true. He'll wait for you, you're getting bigger with his _dag _now, he'll want to be especially careful. He'll wait."

Tara bit her lip, flushing scarlet at Faalca's words. She started scraping again, pushing her tired limbs in agitation. She wished she could work her confusion out: why did he make her feel calm, after all that had gone on in Isengard? Why, with Ushatar, was she comfortable to share all she was, fearless as she'd never been in either Osgiliath or this sanctuary of Free Orcs? And did that mean she'd have to be a mate to him? And more than anything… if his bond was true, why, _why_ had he hurt her so bad?

That afternoon, Tara stopped Ushatar on his way to his rest. He'd been in the forge, she knew, because he carried a long hooked sword with him that she'd never seen before. She stepped up to him boldly, as he approached his cave.

"Ushatar," she said quietly.

"Tara," he returned, his soft but angular lips spreading in a smile. "You look… well today."

She'd thought of smart things she'd say first, but it just came out. "Will you take me out to the sunlight today?"

Ushatar tilted his head slightly, a deep satisfaction spreading across his face. Tara bit her lower lip anxiously. "All right, _ambal._ Let me get a little food together for us. I've been learning how to hammer swords all morning, and it's hungry work. Will you come in?"

Tara followed him inside the cave they'd first shared. In just one month, he'd gathered many more weapons, but also strange things, too. Tara looked against the wall, where a hide hung from a set of huge iron nails, banged into the rock. It was what was on the hide that caught her: the view from their promontory, of the mountains and the forest and the sky, and far beyond, the great greening steppes of Rohan, sketched out in some coal-like substance.

"Ushatar! Did you do this?"

"Yeah," he murmured, rubbing his neck. He squatted down, and started taking strips of meat from the rocks around his hearth.

"It's…. I've never seen anything _like _it," Tara breathed.

"Just what I see," Ushatar said quietly.

"Will you show me? Have you anything to draw on, when we go?"

Ushatar wasn't looking at her, but he was smiling proudly. "I draw on slices of wood at first," he said. "Hides are expensive, a lot of effort to hunt for a big one that you don't need for clothes, or a lot of trade with other Orcs. But I'll bring my charcoal. It's what I draw with." Ushatar squatted down before a roll of leather which he opened with careful, big grey hands. Inside were sticks of burnt charcoal. He broke off a small piece, and held it up to her, his amber-green eyes full of peace. Tara almost choked, seeing him this way. "I can capture anything with this," he said, grinning.

"Draw me," Tara said impulsively.

She saw Ushatar catch his breath, and his eyes go wide.

"Um, all right. At the promontory, where the light is bright. You… you shine a little in it."

"No I don't!" Tara said, laughing.

"You do," Ushatar insisted. "I doubt I can draw you all the way. You are too fair for my hand. But I'll catch you best in the light you were born to."

Tara shook her head firmly, her eyes on the floor. "Don't. Say things like that."

"That's bad?" Ushatar asked softly, surprised. Tara could tell how careful he was trying to be with her, which caught her, as it had for a while.

"That's… Personal. Private-like."

Ushater grunted softly, and Tara flinched. "S'okay," Ushatar murmured quickly, softly. "We're ready to go. You walking?"

"Some of it," Tara said, laying her hand over the astonishing rise in her middle. She looked like Madam Willian, when she was four months pregnant with her last, and Tara was only a little more than two. But she'd been with Faalca to the hot springs, and Faalca'd undressed all the way, and Tara had seen that a five month belly on an Orc looked bigger than what she thought it would be, and… and it was Ushatar, more than a head and a half taller than her, who'd made her bump.

Tara heard a soft rumble from Ushatar, almost like the purr of a great cat. "I will bring you to the sunlight," he said, stepping close to her. He looked down at her, so close his breath stirred her hair. Tara understood in that moment that she had a power over him, and it stunned her. She decided to be honest about how exhausted she was. His baby—for she'd learned it was all right to acknowledge it as such—was weighing her into the ground. Tara nodded, and Ushatar bent and lifted her easily. She felt his arms tight around her body, as if he relished the closeness. Tara caught her breath, deciding to believe it for an afternoon. She didn't think Faalca, or Shari for that matter, were liars.

Ushatar carried her to their promontory. When he spoke it was softly, about the forest. Did she see how many flowers were blooming, now that spring had come? He'd never noticed flowers before, he said, and he wondered how that was possible. "Of course," he said, his voice rich and warm, "this is only my second spring."

"What?"

Ushatar sighed. "My old Master made me, Tara. Took me… from my mother's belly, when the wizard decided it was time. I was born…" he looked down at his arm, "When my brand says: May 1 3018, Ushatar 5229."

Tara cringed in his arms and covered her face. "You are a baby."

"If you say so!" he laughed, leaping up the promontory to their spot on sunsoaked cliff.

"Ushatar Azat-horn," Tara said, as he set her down on the blanket._ Let him see himself as who he is now,_ she thought. "Not 5229. I can't even _count_ that high."

"Sure you can," Ushatar said, grinning. "It's just the same thing over and over again, with different first numbers. I counted soldiers sometimes. Here, let me draw you."

"Um… Okay. Where… where should I be?"

Ushatar stood tall, looking about. "It's kind of interesting… where the storm knocked those trees off their roots. The pines, getting all orange is one thing—But the other types of trees, with their leaves going all different colors and falling. What do you think? It's your picture."

"I like the broken trees," Tara said quietly, nodding, turning her blooming body so that the valley they'd come up was behind them.

* * *

Ushatar tilted his head, looking at the beauty of the light pouring over the sharp bones in Tara's face. As he'd predicted, the light… it magnified her, made him ache for her.

He shoved it down and grinned at her, and took one of the thin wooden circles out of his pack. He sat down, relishing the free excuse to gaze at the planes of her face… _Tarka-izub,_ he thought quietly, smiling, feeling total peace, the likes of which he'd never have known a month and a day ago, before the Power was defeated. For some reason she laughed when he held his piece of charcoal up alongside the line of her cheekbone and checked it with his eye. He sketched the lines of her, wishing hard that he was caressing them, pouring it all into his drawing. He sketched her face, sharp, slightly asymmetrical, big eyes and big lips, surrounded by that thick black hair that slightly peaked on her forehead, like the wings of a beautiful crebain, a free one flying over a bone-white winter sky.

She always protected herself with her arms, and he drew them as sharp bars across her. But Ushatar rounded the belly beneath her protective arms with his thumb, envisioning his child, hoping the _dag_ grew strong with each sweep and shadow he put onto the wood. He grinned at her curious face. "Wait," he murmured, sketching out her thick hair hanging down the slim back, the arch and sweep where she sat—where Ushatar longed to cup his hands as he dug inside her—then the graceful fold of her legs, in the rugged fur blanket. He scratched in the detail he didn't dare before, the swell of her breasts that he could so easily see beneath her clothes, then added a last moment sharpness to her full lips, the one line he wished to wipe away.

"Can I see?" Tara asked anxiously, laughing a little: nervously, Ushatar sensed.

Ushatar flashed it before her playfully, and as he'd expected, she rose up on her knees and stretched out her arms to see.

"Give it to me!" Tara cried, and Ushatar relented, putting the drawing in her hands. He watched as her face changed, from playful to anxious, her grey eyes widening. "You think I look like this?"

"I see just fine," he said, meeting her eyes. _And you are a beauty, my beauty._

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Ushatar held her gaze for as long as he could, until the tension that he knew so well crept in at the corners of her lips. He swung his eyes away, surprised to see the Evening Star. "Better get going," Ushatar murmured, smiling. "Wouldn't want your friends to give you trouble, wondering where you were."

He was able to lift her down from the promontory, his arm around her slim—but rounded, filling out—waist. "I wanna walk," she said, of course, and so Ushatar set her down.

"You mind if I…?" he asked, slightly embarrassed about his need.

"Piss in the bushes?" Tara laughed, understanding at once. "Go where I can't see."

Ushatar grinned boyishly, and leaped down the trail a few times, showing off even though his back and leg stabbed him. He finally got serious, found some satisfactory bushes, and unlaced his pants. Bored and anxious to get back to Tara, Ushatar looked back up towards the high-ground where he'd left her. He must have jumped lower than he thought, for he couldn't see her right away. It was an odd view. Ushatar smelled spring all around him, but before him War-battered trees were tipped to the side, and their leaves, turned yellow and dying, were swirling to the ground. _Beware the falling leaves..._

Tara's scream echoed down the cliff, freezing Ushatar's blood. He raced uphill, leaping and grabbing to return to where he left her, but when he finally made it, she was gone. He scented the air, smelling traces of her nearby.

"_Ushataaaaar!"_

He looked to the left, and there was his _tarka,_ his Tara, being dragged uphill by her hair, by a wild-eyed Uruk-hai warrior.


	32. Chapter 32

The fucker was on top of her, and she was screaming and scratching at his face. _Oh nonono…._ Ushatar tore up the hill and grabbed the Uruk-hai by his thick black hair, throwing the attacker with all his strength away from her. "You all right?" Ushatar demanded, ripping his new sword from its sheath.

Tara threw him a wild-eyed look. There was blood coming from her nose, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. For a moment she didn't seem to recognize him, but there was no time to think about that. The Uruk stood up again, laughing and snarling, murder in his eyes. "Get behind me, Tara!"

"Traitor fuck!" the Uruk spat, pulling the hooked sword of Isengard.

"Let's go, _snaga_," Ushatar growled, flashing fangs.

"You're already _dead_," the Uruk laughed, his eyes flickering around the forest. Ushatar followed his gaze and saw three more Uruk-hai running down to join the battle.

Ushatar snapped, charging the Isengarder, smashing into him with the lovingly crafted sword Aarth-Anghum made. But the Isengarder was years older, and he parried Ushatar's blows deftly. Ushatar found himself losing ground, driven back just as the others jumped down into the battle. Tara's scream tore through air, sending a shock of fury and violent desperation burning through Ushatar's blood. He threw all of his power into his sword and smashed it over the Isengarder's head. The roaring Uruk blocked with his pit-made sword, but Aarth-Anghum's craft was a thousand times better. The hooked sword of Isengard shattered and Ushatar's sword crashed down through the top of the Uruk's skull. Seizing, Ushatar's enemy fell to the ground in a pool of brains and blood. Ushatar stomped on the Uruk's shoulder and wrenched his sword free.

And then something flew into his back, knocking him forward. Ushatar felt teeth and claws ripping at his back as he tripped over the dead Uruk and fell to the ground, his sword flying out of his hand. Another weight crashed onto him, and Ushatar felt a thrill of terror, for the beasts on his back again as he lay at the bottom of the pile. He fought like a demon, twisting, howling as claws tore out his flesh. His sword was infuriatingly just out of his reach and a hard pair of knees pressed into his wounded spine. The pain was blinding as the bone chip dug in, sending spasms of weakness and agony through Ushatar's body.

"Ushatar!" Tara shouted, suddenly right above him. She kicked his sword to him. Emboldened fiercely by her help—even her presence—Ushatar wrenched around and drove his sword through though a thick black neck. From his peripheral vision he saw that Tara had his knife in her small hands, the one he'd given her to comfort her in his presence. As the second Uruk's blood sprayed into Ushatar's face, the third squealed viciously. Ushatar wiped his eyes clean and was stunned to see his knife sticking from between the third Uruk's shoulders, and Tara standing over her enemy, eyes wide in disbelief. Ushatar kicked the dead and dying Uruks off him.

"You got a kill, _ambal!_" Ushatar cried, soaring with joy that she'd fought alongside him.

Then a shadow came up behind her, and black arms covered with scars and burns snatched around Tara's belly. Ushatar was on his feet, but then he saw the wild, dodgy eyes and the lanky, hollow face.

"Nuk! What the fuck! What are you doing here?"

"Mine…" Nuk hissed, sniffing Tara's hair. Tara was sobbing now, realizing she couldn't fight her way out of an iron Uruk-hai grasp.

"Nuk, let her go! You don't have to fight me! Let her go, give it up! Isengard is dead, you're not a slave anymore!"

"Ushatar kill him!" Tara screamed.

Sword in one hand, Ushatar held out his open palm, murmuring in Black Speech. "Come on, Nuk… She's my mate. She'd got my whelp, you can see it and feel it. Let her go, I'll let you live. I'll find you shelter, you can get better. You can be free!"

"Too late, too late!" Nuk giggled. "The little one squealed on yoooo! Pretty pretty feels so good…"

"Nuk!" Ushatar roared. "Let her _go!"_

The insane Uruk-hai sniffed Tara's hair deeply, and then opened his mouth, vicious crooked fangs flashing. He kept one arm around Tara, but the other hand grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head down. He was going to mark her, or rip her throat out, or _mark her—_

"Tara, fight, now!" Ushatar screamed, and then he plowed forward. Nuk abandoned his efforts to bite Tara and stumbled backwards away from Ushatar's fury. Tara thrashed in his arms, stomping on his feet, elbowing his iron belly, but it did no good. "Duck down!" Ushatar shouted, and then he prayed to unknown forces that his aim was true, and he risked all he had on a wild slice through the air. His Orc sword slipped into Nuk's neck as if the thick hide was butter, black blood sprayed and shot into the air as Nuk's head thudded to the ground.

"Oh, oh!" Tara gasped, shoving the suddenly loose arm off her. The headless body collapsed, and Tara ran into Ushatar's arms. His wolf-fur vest was covered in black blood, his own and his enemies', but Tara pressed herself into him, sobbing wildly.

"Shh, shh, it's over now Tara," Ushatar whispered, stroking her hair. He still steamed with fury, quivered with it, put Tara was safe and that was all that mattered to Ushatar. Her arms locked around his waist and Ushatar moaned softly at the sudden rush of pleasure. He closed his own iron embrace on her. He bent his head and kissed her hair, and whispered, "You're blooded now, _ambal_… You're a blooded warrior, and a damned good _sharlob._ You saved my life, _Tarka._ I was done for a moment there, and you saved me."

"Just get me the _fuck_ out of here," she breathed shakily.

Ushatar swept her off her feet, but kept his bloody sword naked in his hand. "Poor bastards," Ushatar growled. "Poor Nuk, he never even had a chance. None of us ever… fucking _dushatar _sorcerer, never even gave us a _chance_ to do right."

"You chose," Tara said quietly, and she knew it was true with every bit of her soul. Exhausted, she lay her head against his bloody chest and closed her eyes, trusting him finally to bring her to safety.

"Wait a minute, it should be around here somewhere…" Ushatar turned, heading back up the mountain. He wanted to get her drawing and his charcoal. He knew just where he had dropped it. He knelt with Tara in his arms, and gave her the drawing and satchel to hold. Then he turned, knowing there was a shorter way home. It was a rougher, rockier path, but Ushatar hardly felt his pain, so sweet it was to have her completely soft and trusting in his arms. And holding her, not having to pick a patient, smooth path for her, Ushatar could get them home far faster. He jogged as smoothly as he could.

And then he came to another rise, where he could see down in a gulch far, far below, and he sucked his breath in disbelief.

Fires flickered in the early twilight near ragged, windblown black tents. Several Uruks—little more than dots against the landscape from Ushatar's lofty perch—guarded what looked like a pile of battle plunder in the center of the camp. As the twilight deepened, Mordor Orcs almost as big as Uruk-hai woke and went out for their pisses, or to find water.

Tara opened her eyes, and a deep shudder passed through her. "Oh no," she cried softly. "Oh no..."

An army of Mordor survivors had come to the Misty Mountains, and finally Nuk's insane rambling started to make sense to Ushatar. Someone—maybe even Ghuribal—had given up the Free Clan, and these wild, defeated soldiers of Darkness had come to destroy them.


	33. Chapter 33

There was no time to bathe. Tara wiped her bleeding nose with a rag, and it came back red and black both: Ushatar's blood was on her, and the one who tried to bite her's blood as well. Outside Ushatar's cave was something like orderly panic. The Durub's mate was ordering the little ones hidden in the back tunnels, and choosing females to stand in the front of their defensive circle. Weapons were brought out and quick, desperate farewells exchanged between mates.

"Durub's gonna attack," Ushatar said briefly, shouldering his bow and quivers.

"You _have_ to go?" Tara asked softly.

Ushatar grit his jaw. "Kill 'em out there, they don't come in _here. _I want you in the back, with the _dagu_. You killed one Uruk, but this is battle. I won't be able to fight thinking you're near harm."

Desperate, Tara reached out and grabbed his hand, and Ushatar froze, sword in hand.

"I don't want you to die, Ushatar," Tara breathed. "I… I'm not ready, I don't know if I'll _ever_ be ready to… to mate… But I don't want to lose you now."

Ushatar looked up at her, wide-eyed. He dropped his sword and started shaking. There was a new scent in the air suddenly, swirling around her, and it was welcoming him, pulling him in. He was already geared up for battle, he already tasted blood, _craved_ the blood of a strong enemy. He didn't know how he'd resist this now. Tara, fully aware, swallowed hard, and crept forward on her knees. She looked carefully at his face, frowning a little. "Are you afraid?" she whispered.

"No," he murmured, inhaling her, everything in him churning and rising. "Tara—"

"It's all right, Ushatar," she whispered. "Just don't move."

Tears blurred her grey eyes. Her hands-shaking—rose up, and she lay them softy against his hard, feral grey face. His sigh was a rough broken gasp that somehow tugged at Tara's heart, because she knew that—like her—Ushatar had never been touched in such a way. She pulled a little, and he let her draw his face to her, so easy in her hands that Tara realized he would probably move any way she put him, with complete blind trust. Tara rested his forehead against hers, her small fingers cupping his big cheeks. She felt his power, and it frightened her, but she felt also his quivering, as if there was a fountain of passion and desire ready to erupt just beneath his smooth grey skin, and it was for _her_, and he fought it and held it at bay for _her._

Ushatar lay his brow against hers for a long moment, snatching shaking breaths of her, wanting nothing more than to put his mouth on her skin, her lips, desperate to consume her. His hands hung in the air, so close to her back that he could feel her heat. He was terrified to touch her. If he touched her with his own hands, he'd surely push her down and let out all his pent up, fierce, burning need, and whatever this soft enchantment was would vanish.

And then her lips brushed his mouth, quivering with trepidation but soft and sweet and warm, and Ushatar shuddered hard. Sparks of hot fire shot through him, from his toes to his rampant erection to his quivering lips. _Oh _damn_,_ he thought, _oh damn, oh damn, this is something new…_

"Don't fucking die, Ushatar," Tara breathed against his lips. "Come back for me, and for your baby. We need you. I… I need you."

Ushatar forced himself to pull away, forced himself to stop panting. His voice came out choked, but he said, "I'll—kill—every last one—Come back, for you. My Tara."

He sprung away, agile as a cat, and ducked out the cave without backwards glance.

Tara fell back on her haunches as he left, gasping, covering her mouth with her hands. She'd never felt this way before, never _wanted_ someone in her life or cared what happened to them, until the moment she saw the two Uruk-hai pinning Ushatar down and clawing him apart. She couldn't name what she felt, only that it was warm and confusing and dizzying, and now she could weep that—injured as he was—he was running back into the fight. Ushatar was no longer the faceless demon who'd hurt her and stolen her from her burning city—well, perhaps he _was_, he was surely dangerous still, he'd surely done it even under the hard bond of the _udalgurzu..._ But as confusing and frightening as that was, Tara didn't believe he'd attack her now. He'd had a thousand chances to hurt her since they'd left Isengard, and he had not. She'd seen the affect she'd had on him, how bad he _wanted_ her; but he was willing—and more important, able—to put it aside just to be close to her. And there was so much to Ushatar that had nothing to do with their past at all, things that somehow called to Tara, as if they shared some essential composition. She wasn't ready for a physical relationship with Ushatar, but she wanted to share a part of her life with him.

"Please, please," Tara whispered, "Please let him come back."

* * *

The Mordor Orcs and Uruk-hai hadn't planned to attack that night, but they were a wild bunch always up for a fight. The strongest—and luckiest—of those at the Black Gate had run off with Sauron's demise, and were strong enough to withstand the loss of his will that had rendered many of his slaves—especially those made with his magic—feeble and helpless. This lot had banded together, though there was a new leader every day as one Orc or another was ripped apart by the rest. They'd made their way first to Isengard where they'd found a group of Orcs banded together, readying for a journey. Cunning had brought the truth of their destination out—which they realized was a hidden place packed with females and food both in store and on foot in the form of the little _dagu_ sure to be there—and cruelty had discovered the map. All but one of the Orcs had died in silence, and it amused the Mordor group to no end that the squealer had no balls to torment. But he had other parts.

Draagh narrowed his eyes in calculation, peering through the thick ferns to the camp of snarling, boasting enemies. Ushatar was ready to run in, his entire body was bristling and shaking for it as he lay on the rocky forest floor. The clan leader moved his grey clawed hand subtly, advocating patience.

One of the big Orcs—a sick, dingy, creamy-colored fellow with only one small point ear—came out of a near shredded tent with some sort of banner in his hand, a great red eye drawn on it. He snarled out some guttural words and raised the banner, and dozens of Orcs snapped up their weapons and jumped into line behind the standard carrier.

"_We'll_ be givin' out the plunder and meats!" the creamy Orc roared, "Not no Isengard swine!"

A crowd of dominant Uruk-hai in standard issue tunics stood up from whatever they were devouring by the fire, throwing down long, gnawed bones. The Uruk-hai needed no other words, they ran straight for the Orcs, and Draagh gave a fanged smile. He held his hand up in the air and waited until the fighting turned into a free for all as spectators turned into combatants.

"Now, now!" Draagh shouted, and a great roar broke out as hundreds of Free Orcs charged into the camp. Ushatar pounded up the ground and raced into battle, spotting that first big creamy Orc, who'd been dispatching an Uruk with a sharp axe and now looked up in black confusion to see a bare-chested Uruk-hai in fringed leather trousers bearing down on him.

The battle-roar broke apart into near a thousand separate snarls and screams, and the sounds of metal clanging and tearing flesh. Ushatar was in his glory, doing what he'd been bred to do, but now with the additional edge of fighting for a desperate, beautiful cause. He stalked out the biggest enemies and teased and taunted them to their death, wielding his hooked sword with the terrible playful lethal deftness that defined his battle style. He discovered that his senses were a thousand times sharper without the fog of black magic, and he exploited them all to their limit. Ushatar was a terror to his enemies, and they fled from him.

Across the field of battle, the disorganized enemy was breaking under the fierce, disciplined assault of Draagh's Free Orcs. Ushatar couldn't find enemies fast enough to cut them down. Standing in a field of mangled bodies, Ushatar held his sword at ready, dancing about on his toes fiending for a foe. A familiar sound began cutting through his bloodlust: the roar of victory that made Ushatar's cock into iron.

Panting, grinning now, his face slick with black blood, Ushatar turned his glowing raptor gaze and saw Saalcaf shaking his sword in the air, roaring and howling. "Fuck them, Ushatar!" Saalcaf bellowed, laughing haughtily. "We got 'em! We got 'em!"

But soon a sharp howl of disbelief rose above their triumph, and Ushatar was rocked by the cries.

"Draagh Durub has fallen!" an Orc screamed. "Draagh Durub is dead!"

* * *

"I wanted to help," Urauk cried, shaken with grief and shame. "I thought—my mate needed my protection—"

"I told you to stay behind!" Aarth-Anghum snarled.

Ushatar struggled to manage himself as they walked through the tunnels: the afterglow of battle and all the lust connected to it, the hunger for the flesh of his enemies which didn't seem up for the offering—unless he went back and helped himself, which he would _not_ do—and the shock of Draagh's death. He had fallen defending Urauk, in over his head with the warriors of Mordor. At the same time, he pitied Urauk, a new feeling for Ushatar.

Aarth-Anghum stalked off, and Ushatar stepped up beside the despondant boy. "Gotta learn to follow orders, Urauk," Ushatar said, his voice gruff and soft at once.

"It's my fault Draagh Durub is dead," Urauk whispered.

"No Urauk," Ushatar said. He thought for a moment, and was surprised to find that his breath slowed. He thought of something to tell Urauk, something that would ease the young one's shame but not be a lie.

"The Durub was a warrior. He fell in defeat of his enemies, a death he would not have refused. If I'd died fighting the troll, I'd have been glad to do it, to save your life. I think the Durub would feel the same way."

Urauk swallowed, nodding his hung head. "Thank you, Ushatar," he murmured. "Thank you again."

"Like you told me, Uruak, brothers look out for each other."

* * *

"We've won!" Gadhaal cried when she saw her son Saalcaf enter the cavern, his sword held aloft in victory.

Tara, at the edge of the tunnel to the hot spring, let out her breath. She pushed her way forward, but now all the females were hurrying out to see if their mates had returned. Faalca came to her side, standing on her toes for Ras.

"Do you see them?" Tara asked urgently.

"Not yet, but our numbers look good—"

A high, piercing wail cut Faalca off. It was the shriek of a tortured animal, a cry torn out of the depths of a wild, ravaged soul, and Tara shuddered uncontrollably, moved to tears by the utter agony of the sound.

"The Durub has fallen!" Faalca cried softly, her sharp fingertips to her lips.

"Gadhaal…" Tara said. The wailing of the Durub's mate did not diminish, but seemed to raise in intensity every time Tara thought it had peaked. Orcesses ran forward to her, and Tara could see that she must have been on the ground in the midst of them, brought to her knees by something terrifyingly beyond grief.

"_Udalgurzu_," Faalca whispered mournfully, and Tara swallowed hard. "Gadhaal will not be at peace again, until she follows him into death."

"Ushatar… if I were to die…"

"He would never be the same. But look, Tara, here they are! Walking and whole!"

Faalca tore off, incredibly fast for all her swollen belly. The Orcess launched herself into the air and landed on Ras, wrapping arms and legs both around him. He spun Faalca around, digging his claws into her back.

But Tara didn't run. Suddenly she was rooted in place. _I kissed him_, she thought, her heart pounding away. Ushatar crossed the cavern as a predator, his gate lanky and strong, his clothes and body and face splashed again with blood. _What if he can't stop himself this time? What if he thought I kissed him in promise? What if he… _

And at the same time, she unconsciously clasped her fingers over her belly, as if to tell the little traveler within that its father had returned from battle safe and victorious. _He's mine_, Tara thought boldly, with total surety. _Whatever comes of it, he's mine._

As soon as Ushatar saw her, he began to jog, his wild hair streaming behind him. He stopped a pace before her and caught her in his dangerous gaze. Tara held her breath, feeling both a thrill of fear and a deep, deep shyness. She had never kissed anyone before him, and she had given the kiss with her full heart. Yet she didn't think she could do it again, and at the same time she was ready to faint with relief that he had returned. He stood before her, waiting for her to speak, waiting for her lead.

"You made it," Tara breathed, smiling.

"I told you I would," Ushatar replied, his voice a deep, rumbling purr.

Tara bit her lip, stepped forward uncertainly, into the range of his arms. She lingered there a moment, sensing the wild emotions inside him, beneath the hard, calm exterior. She waited, but he didn't make to grab her, he didn't even move. She put her arms around him lightly, and lay her cheek to his scarred, bloody chest. She could hear his heart pounding, a deep fast drum. Ushatar tightened his arms around her slowly, and a great sigh came from his chest as he released the tension and lust and fire of battle, and breathed in his _tarka._


	34. Chapter 34

"Ushatar's got some deep gashes, Brodha," Tara said, peering over the healer's shoulder. She was binding up the half-severed arm of a young male Orc, who lay in a state of _akrum_ and courage-induced silence, his head turned, his orange eyes paled and staring without seeing to the hide wall of his _dar._

"He'll be one of many," Brodha said. She turned away from her patient and washed her bloody hands in a bowl held by her daughter. "Can you stitch?"

Tara shook her head adamantly. "Not at all."

Brodha sighed, rummaging through her bag for a moment, producing a pungent sack of herbs. "Fill one of my basins with boiling water from my cauldron, let it steep and cool a bit, and wash the wounds. I'll get there when I can, but you can see…"

"I see," Tara said firmly, taking the herbs, following Brodha's instructions, and returning to Ushatar with a hot bowl in her arms. He was outside his cave, staring as injured Orcs were treated by mates or Brodha and Aarth-Anghum's daughters.

"This is… strange," Ushatar said quietly. "Where I come from…" he shook his head. "No such effort would be spent on the wounded. Mercy was when one of your penmates saw you writhing at the edge of death, and sped your passing along after the cell door was shut."

"That's awful," Tara murmured. "Brodha can't come to see you yet. Many are wounded far worse than you, so she said you must wait."

"I'm not hurt, _ambal_," Ushatar said easily. "I was…" _At play,_ Ushatar thought, _and at my best with that lot of rabble. They were all fang flashing, but little skill. _Of course he couldn't say that to her. "What's that for?" Ushatar asked, indicating the bowl of strong steaming herbs.

"Washing up your not hurts," Tara replied, pursing her lips in a little smile. It wasn't right to laugh with sorrow around them, but they were safe now—what a rush it was, after the terror! And Ushatar reminded her of a bragging street tough who laughed that it tickled when he got his teeth knocked out. Still smiling, her nose wrinkled a little in distaste and she said, "And you're… bloody."

Ushatar shrugged, looking down at himself. Then he smiled, and realized what she was doing, what she _meant _to do. "You win. Let's go to the stream."

He would have ripped his pants off and plunged in when they reached the low relatively secluded corner of the cave where the stream emptied out from the pool and dove into the rocks, disappearing from sight. Looking down at Tara, at her bowl and rag, Ushatar had the presence of mind to sit down calmly at the water's edge. There were other warriors there, a few strong Orcs stripped to the clout enjoying a bath after winning honor in battle. Each was minding their own business, creating an illusion of privacy. Ushatar glanced at Tara again, reading her. No, she wasn't scared at all anymore, to be around the males, or if she was she held it to herself firmly, tough as iron. Or maybe she'd learned to read threats better, and so didn't fear what _might_ be, but what was. _Or maybe_, he thought, _she knows now I will kill—and die—for her, and she feels safe with me at last._

"What do you think will happen now?" Tara asked, sitting behind him. Ushatar heard the sound of a rag ringing out, then felt her push his thick hair over his shoulder, with such gentle sweetness. Ushatar felt cool stream water on his back first, to wash away the blood. Nothing—nothing—had ever felt so good to him.

"With the Durub?" Ushatar breathed, eyes closed. "I don't know. I don't know how those things work. All I know is he was a good commander. I've known some like him, who you follow because you believe they give a fuck how the battle ends and have the skill to bring it about proper. But I don't know…" Ushatar bit his lips shut. Better not to tell her that he wondered if such a group of people—who didn't kill each other regularly—was normal, something these folk believed in, or whether it was Durub's laws that made it. Ushatar would be on alert, until another leader was chosen and proved. If needed, he'd take Tara and run.

Warm water then, tingling into the slashes on his back. His toes curled, and his cock jumped up, and it was hard to stay focused. "We'll be all right," Ushatar promised, sighing.

Tara bathed his back carefully, with a light hand, wondering at the soft rumbling in his chest, trying not to notice the way his sleek muscles rippled-in delight?-as the water poured over them. Tara was amazed at how mauled he was beneath the blood. The two wild Uruks had ripped him furiously, crisscrossing gashes across the wide expanse of his back. "Do you not feel pain, Ushatar?"

"I feel pain. I just don't mind it as you do, at least not so much. And it doesn't limit me."

"Is that why… Why you could… Cause it?"

Ushatar looked over his shoulder, reading her completely. "_Ambal_… I don't know why… Except that it's all I knew, to hurt when I touched someone. What you're doing right now, this wonderful thing with the water? Would never happen to me, if I hadn't met you. If someone other than my commander touched me, that was trouble, and even Gharsh-il carried a flayed whip with little iron beads on it. He got at the backs of my legs one time, I'll show you the scars if you like."

"Why?"

"Couldn't figure out to shut the fuck up when he spoke, when I was first born. Until that whip came down, then I got it real fast."

"When you were _first born,_" Tara repeated, staring at him. "And what was that like?"

Ushatar blew a little whistle through his sharp teeth, and turned again. The warm sweet water rushed over him again as she squeezed out the rag. "It was... Well, the first thing I knew, I couldn't breathe, didn't know how, and everything was _bright._ Then I got clubbed in the gut and I learned to breathe. There were others like me, same hands and feet and size, in a line, just as confused and upset: two of them got into a fight right off, and the whips and clubs cracked down. Stupid, really, because when we were told to _march_—the sorcerer made sure we had language—they marched us into a holding cell, and one at a time we got thrown in with five armed _snaga._ The ones who made it out were branded and assigned to a platoon and a pen. The ones who didn't… I knew nothing more of them."

"Damn," Tara breathed.

Ushatar looked over his shoulder again. "I know better now, Tara. You understand? Because of you, I know better. And I would not lay my hands—or any other part—on you as I did before."

Tara's breath slipped, quivering. But before she had chance to react—to even _think_ of something to say, they were interrupted.

"Ushatar!"

They both looked up at once. Ras threw his sharp chin up a little, in a rough greeting to Ushatar, a fellow warrior.

"Faalca's mate," Tara breathed. "Ras."

Ushatar jumped up and greeted Ras warily.

"You're wanted by Saalcaf."

"What for?" Ushatar asked, feeling Tara's anxiety at his back.

Ras was solemn, hard-eyed. "It's an honor, Ushatar. Only the best warriors are going. You may decline… But I doubt you'll wish to."

Ushatar nodded, and Ras stepped away and waited. "I'm gonna go see what this is about," Ushatar murmured, as close to her ear as he dared. "Better face it head on."

"What about your stitches? Clean pants?"

He smiled softly at her. "I'm _really_ fine, Tara. Brodha can see me when I get back, and I've been bloodier before. I doubt Saalcaf cares."

Tara nodded, worrying her lip as he strutted off with Ras. Then she slowly gathered up her supplies, dumped the water into the stream. She tried to imagine in: being born as she was, knowing nothing of the world and plunged into violence from her first breath. She shook her head softly, and thought of how very far he'd come.

And at the same time, Tara was anxious that she was running down an unmarked trail. Why was it so damn _easy_ all of a sudden with him? Because he'd saved her? Because they'd the darkest of feelings in common? Whatever it was, Tara caught her breath firmly, and decided that she couldn't let this go any further. She'd done what she'd done—embraced him, _kissed_ him—under the surging emotions of battle. Surely, there could be no more. He was already telling her how he would touch her, if he had it all to do again. And she couldn't miss—not with his big build—the very physical reaction her touch had on him. Things could go no further. _That_ was not negotiable. Surely it was not a question of _how_ he touched her—though that played a big part—but the fact that Tara knew she would be terrified to lie with him, and the frightening differences in that part of their anatomy would likely guarantee pain no matter how gentle he was. Tara knew she'd come a long way in her healing, but she was also certain that feeling _that_ again—Ushatar inside her—would send her back into the darkness.

_But thank Grace he returned, safe and whole._ Tara shut her eyes and shook her head, wondering if she'd lost her mind after all. She had been in terror that he would die. Every moment that Ushatar had been gone, Tara had experienced a torment like none she'd ever known. She simply wanted to be next to him. At the same time she felt as though she'd mounted a swift and dangerous horse with no riding experience at all, and it was running away with her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Because if she _did_ stop it, that would mean icing Ushatar out again, and she absolutely could not do that. Not only had he saved her, not only had he heard the truth of her from her own lips-the only one to ever have it full from her-and _then _committed himself to protecting her... As if that wasn't enough, Tara found herself intrigued by him, by his words, his life story... and, she had to admit, the incredible passion she saw in him, far more than in any Man and for her alone, thrilled her in a terrifying yet haughty, proud way.

And therein lay the problem. If Tara had any sense at all, she would shut these crazy thoughts down. That would be the best thing. As much as Ushatar's story tugged at her heart, as much as so many things about him intrigued her, Tara knew for certain that she was toying with a fierce, wild thing who had broken her once before, and admittedly longed to have another go at her. Even if he swore he'd be _gentle_, the very idea was insane.

So why couldn't she pull herself away from him?

* * *

Fifty hard-bodied Orc warriors packed a back cavern. They were the best of the best, and Ushatar knew that he belonged among them. He wondered if he would be asked to fight for Saalcaf, to establish his dominance in the clan.

"Come to the front," Ras said. As one of Saalcaf's closest friends, he was in ascendance, and he wove easily through the tight crowd. Ushatar bit down on the low growl that wanted to roll out of his chest, the wary one that would tell the other males he was ready to go, if they wanted a fight. No matter how tense Ushatar was, no one here was doing that. But if it came to a fight, what did Ushatar really know about Saalcaf?

And then Ushatar saw the clearing, where Draagh's armor and weapons and flashy silver chains were spread on a fine silver cloth on a wooden table, and Ushatar felt a pang of regret for his loss, akin to but far stronger than what he'd felt when he'd killed Nuk. A pit fire raged beside the table, and Saalcaf, along with Draagh's other sons and two living brothers, stood together, the flames licking their dark faces. The fiercest fighters were at the front, forming the next circle out from Draagh's family. Ushatar stood in this circle, beside Ras, and he understood that this was not only a funeral but some sort of induction, and Ushatar was being recognized as part of a select group in the clan.

From somewhere, the source confused by the stone, there came the smell of roasting flesh. The warriors stood solemnly, and Ushatar mimicked them, bowing his head though his eyes darted about.

The sound of drums picked up: some of the warriors had brought _daulu_, which they now picked up and began to beat in a deep, wrenching rhythm. Now there was motion, and Ushatar saw Ranash the sorceress emerging from a dark pock in the wall, a tunnel Ushatar hadn't noticed through the crush of the warriors. She carried something in her hands, and when Ushatar saw what it was he felt a shudder of intrigue, confusion, and desire: a bright white, wet, Orc skull on a silver tray.

Old female Orcs followed Ranash carrying platters of raw steaks of dark meat, cut into small pieces. Behind her was Draagh's mate Gadhaal, her eyes hollow and grave, her leather dress soiled with the dirt she'd rolled in when grief brought her to the ground. The females set the trays down on the table; then they turned and disappeared in silence, and Ushatar felt a wave of relief with the sorceress gone. He realized with some comfort that relief tinged the air around him, as if he wasn't the only one discomfited by magic. But Ushatar wondered: were they to _eat_ Draagh? And then, why all the ceremony?

"Draagh Durub," Saalcaf spoke, "leader of the _Madurz Baiark_, son of Dushtala, son of Duurfit, has followed the ancestors into the _burgul_, the shadow. Our kind is promised nothing but what we already have, and what we take and keep for ourselves, and we claim no knowledge of or hope for the _burgul._ But Draagh Durub was _more_ than an Orc. He was a mighty warrior of the _Krankluku_, and warriors of the _Krankluku _never die! Brothers, tonight we honor Draagh, taking in his flesh so that his strength will be with us always and his spirit will never leave us. We shall each meet death one day, but we will go bravely, knowing that as warriors of the _Krankluku_ our essence will be carried on by our Brothers as long as the clan exists."

The fifty Orcs roared, "_Slaium narku nau! Brusub-izgu matum!"_

Ushatar wasn't sure how eating Draag would give him life forever, or help Draagh to live on. If this were true, he'd bestowed such favors indiscriminatly throughout his short life, for _tarku_ and horse-lords, Uruks and Orcs alike, and he should have no fear at all of death. Yet Ushatar was fairly certain of his own mortality. But he understood all else implicitely: by partaking in the ritual, he would become a part of this Brotherhood, this _Krankluku._ He would be considered an elite warrior of the Free Clan, and that sounded fine to Ushatar.

He was surprised to see Saalcaf's gaze settle on him, directing the attention of every _other_ Orc in the room his way as well. _Now it comes,_ Ushatar thought, shackles raising. _Now they will test me. They will attack me._

Saalcaf's hard eyes gave no indication of when it would come. He opened his mouth to speak, and Ushatar braced himself.

"Tonight, we also offer Brotherhood to a newcomer to our clan, a _baalak_ who came to us desiring freedom, and in return gave his strong arm to our defense. Ushatar Azat-horn, know this: if you accept our offer, you pledge your sword to the elimination of our enemies, wherever and whatever they should be. You will be a warrior before any other occupation. You will win plunder and glory in battle. When you die, your brothers will take your strength unto them, and you shall live forever in the clan."

_Brotherhood?_ Ushatar-expecting a truly fucked ceremonial _brawl_-was stunned. He considered their offer quickly.

Hed'd never given a bit of thought—it was too unpleasant—to what would be done with his remains, so that his fellow warriors would eat them was of no import to Ushatar. Otherwise, he felt that in a way he was coming home. He was a warrior, was he not? Above anything else? And didn't the clan who had given him shelter—and given Tara shelter and healing—deserve his sword? It occurred to Ushatar that he would have status now. Another thing he'd never given a piss for in his old life, but now he had _Tara_, and the little one. With status, he could provide her with small luxuries—especially if he went on raids—and he could be sure of a good mate for his offspring. His _dag_ would be more than a half-breed interloper, he would be a full member of the clan, perhaps inducted himself into the elite fraternity. And Ushatar was already committed to the defense of this cavern: it was his territory now. Ushatar met Saalcaf's gaze and said, "I accept."

Saalcaf was too much in mourning for his sire to smile, but his eyes were pleased. "Then join in the feast with us, and become one with your Brothers."

The drumming went on, now coming from a single source which Ushatar suspected highly was the female members of Draagh's family, the bereaved Gadhaal among them. _Fucking gorgeous for an Orc,_ Ushatar thought. Sometimes—_Draagh forgive me_—when he wanted a good picture to relieve the misery in his balls with, and he feared to imagine Tara and the only memories he had of fucking her, he pictured himself falling like a raptor on Gadhaal's sweat-sheened body, as he'd seen it lying in Draagh's furs. She was nothing so near as attractive as Tara—or any _sharlob_—to Ushatar, but the thought of rough-fucking Gadhaal-who would _surely_ play hard in return-did the job damn well for Ushatar.

But her misery—her savage wailing grief for Draagh—put a cold dread in Ushatar' heart, and he hoped he died long before Tara. If the pain of her emotional distance had been agony to him, what would her death be? Ushatar would rather enter combat without any weapons but his hands than face the death of his bonded mate. Even if she wouldn't fuck him, probably ever again.

The tray came around, and Ushatar took his bit of sacred flesh.

"Remember him," Ras instructed softly. "Remember how he helped you, remember his strength, his courage. Thank him as you eat."

It was not hard to do such honor for Draagh: Ushatar had never known such a fair commander, one who ruled not so much with the whip as with the permission of his people, because they trusted him to do right. _That_ was a beautiful thing to Ushatar.

At the table, Draagh's male relatives sawed off the top of Draagh's boiled skull. Each reached a clawed hand in, scooping out a grey gelatinous mouthful. Ushatar was not so honored as to receive a bite of Draagh' brains, but Ras was called to the table to partake, along with Aarth-Anghum, who Ushatar had not seen before in the cavern. Aarth-Anghum caught Ushatar's gaze and bowed his head slightly. Ushatar returned the greeting.

After the ceremony, Ushatar was surprised to hear Saalcaf calling him. Ushatar stopped, a little uneased by all the other Brothers patting him lightly on the shoulder as they bid him farewell.

"I am pleased you joined us, Ushatar Azat-horn," Saalcaf said. In mere hours, the young hot-headed Orc had taken up his dignity, as if his claim to leadership was uncontested. Ushatar hoped fervently that it was. Enemies could come and go, but Ushatar believed deeply in living and cooperating as a group. The clan's easy victory over the Mordor Orcs and Uruk-hai proved what unity among Orc-kind could do.

"You honor me, Saalcaf. And you already had my sword. I am pleased as well," Ushatar said from his heart.

"I know, Ushatar. But I was wondering if you would do a personal service for me… and for the clan."

Ushatar frowned lightly. "Um… What service?"

Finally, Saalcaf smiled, though there were lines of grief all over his young face. "I will be the next leader. Draagh raised me to it, when my older brother preferred making arms to swinging them. Usually these things go easy, like when my sire claimed dominance. But if there is any trouble, I'd feel better to know you were at my side, rather than coming at my back."

"Saalcaf…" Ushatar wasn't sure what to say, especially when he scented the finest trace of a challenge from the young Orc. Surely Saalcaf didn't think Ushatar would want to fight him for leadership! All Ushatar wanted was to do what he did best-in a better way than what the wizard had forced him to-and care for his Tara and his _dag._ But maybe his size and skill gave Saalcaf pause, if leadership was claimed by the strongest warrior. Ushatar took a calming breath and said, "I want peace here, Saalcaf. Whatever I can do to help keep the clan strong and united, I will do. I wish for nothing more."

"Thank you, Brother," Saalcaf said. "That's all I want: to keep the peace, and my sire's law."

* * *

"_Slaium narku nau! Brusub-izgu matum!"_

_"_Life without end! We shall never have death!"


	35. Chapter 35

"We don't mean to slaughter folk," Saalcaf told Ushatar, squatting over a shallow pit of dirt trapped in a rectangle of stones. He held a carved stick in his hand, over a drawing he'd made illustrating nearby villages of Men. "That's like killing all the does, and never having any fawns to grow into your venison stew. But we _will_ rob them blind. White-skins will kill any Orc on sight, and they often do, and it's only getting worse now. Why should we not punish them for it? It is good to cause _fear_, Ushatar, but not destruction. My sire told me this is not how they did things in Isengard, and so I hope you understand our way and can abide by it."

Ushatar frowned a little, wanting to make sure he understood, and did not give offense or cause trouble without meaning to. "You mean, play with them, take their gold and silver, but don't kill?"

"There will be killing," Saalcaf said, tilting his head—and his senses—to the dangerous _baalak_. "The Men will fight, they always do, and you are a warrior, you will meet their aggression. But we don't seek to slaughter, we seek their metals and treasures, their livestock, and of course the luxuries of their homes to give to our mates." Saalcaf turned his blue-green gaze on Ushatar. "And we don't be rapin' their women and spitting their little ones, you understand? We must live here, and that would be an outrage all Men would unite behind. The raid… they see that as a back and forth, since they be fuckin' with us and their fellow Men, too, especially the Wood-Dwellers. But go after their mates and their _dagu _enough, and they'll band together and hunt Orcs to the edge of the world. We could not withstand it, especially if their new Durub is the terror Ranash says he is. So no fucking on the raid, Brother."

Ushatar laughed self-consciously. "No fucking on the raid, Saalcaf Durub. Hadn't planned on it."

"And no fucking with White-skin _dagu_, don't even see them unless they pick up a weapon. Then you kill, obviously. Also: we don't want to strip them _bare_, so they starve. Leave them enough that they can build it up again, for our next raid. I take a tenth of the plunder, as Durub. The rest is yours, so if you have shit you like in your arms, steal some more to meet my levy. That's about it. We'll leave at twilight, so get a nice meal and speak your peace to your _udalgurz._"

Ushatar was deeply excited for the raid. It was after mid-summer—near five moons since he'd whelped Tara the night he found her—and he'd not tested himself in battle since the _dalug-hai_ from Mordor came to the Mountains. He also was pleased by Saalcaf's rules. Orcs may not relate well to White-skins, they couldn't _see_ them the way they saw Orcs—but Ushatar knew he'd be unable to see _sharlobu_ hurt without thinking of Tara.

She grew more beautiful by the day, and as much as she wore big clothes and tried to be discreet with her body, Ushatar could see right through her clothes and the change in her amazed him. When he'd taken her, she'd been small and slim. That agonizing morning he'd been shamed by Dolpan, he'd taken her small budding breasts in his hands, his palms near flat over them. Now he was certain he could cup his hands around them, and he longed to drag his teeth—gently—over that swollen roundness. Her hips had grown out a little as well, and Ushatar couldn't look at her from the back without a pounding erection that was growing tired of the rough, cold, dry relief of his hand. But from the front…! Ushatar laid his eyes on beautiful, bold Tara, her grey eyes and pouting lips and his first child curled up just under her smooth skin, and he knew he'd die for her over and again, happily.

But the _dag_ was hard on her, and it scared him. So many days she just stayed in her little cave, because even the short walk to Brodha's was tiring. Her friends came—the new Durub' mate among them—to cheer her, but Ushatar knew it was hard on Tara to lose her mobility and independence. She bathed secretively from a basin in her cave, but Ushatar made it a point to come once a day to take her to the stream or pool, or if she wanted, the hot spring. Tara never threw off her clothes like the other females and plunged into the pleasant water, but she dangled her bare legs in and sometimes smiled at him. She was colder to him now than she was before she'd held his face and put her lips on his, and he didn't understand why, but he took it—like a knife in his chest—he took it and savored what she _would_ give him. Because not only was she his _Tarka_, she had his _dag_ high on her belly and inky black shadows under her eyes. Ushatar wondered again how his whelp would get out, and if she'd be able to survive it.

He still took her to the sun sometimes, though he was wary. There'd been two sightings of armed Men, not locals but outsiders with steel swords. Ushatar knew Tara must crave the sun, and perhaps parts of her old life. He determined he'd find her something fine on the raid, something that would please her eyes. He decided to leave the purple stone in her cave by 'accident' as well, to see if she would put it on.

Ushatar wanted her to have the best he could give her. He could imagine his little one in her arms already: and he knew from what he saw in the cavern that his _dag_ would drink its life from her little round breasts. He couldn't wait to see it. He wondered if his own youngling would be the first Uruk born free in the world.

Ushatar found Tara sitting alone in her little cave, facing the wall, legs crossed, head down. Her beautiful long black hair was parted to revealed the back of her creamy neck, and Ushatar preserved the image for a later drawing. Drawing kept him cool, when all he wanted was to have her. Drawing made him _think_ about her, the shape of her body, the possible limits and delights of her flesh—if _sharlobu_ felt it like Orc women did—rather than just want to pump away at her until he exploded. He'd never imagined that females could _want_ like he did, until he came to the clan and smelled Orc women hot and open. But Tara never smelled close to that: she was either sweet and light, or utterly closed against him.

But this was different all together. Her head hung darkly, the whole _cave_ was full of darkness. And then Ushatar smelled blood. He didn't understand. "_Ambal_…" he murmured, because he always saw a soft flush come into her cheeks when he called her that. "Are you hurt?" He took the liberty to come to her side. There was no resistance in the air, and so Ushatar dropped to his knees beside her.

Tara breathed hard, rocking a little. Her arms were wrapped over her belly. She shook her head, and Ushatar smelled—then saw—her tears.

"Tara, what is it? Please tell me, let me try to help you."

She closed her eyes. "I'm bleeding, Ushatar. Down… down there."

Horrified at all the things _that_ might mean, Ushatar frowned hard. But he still didn't know what she was trying to say, and so he stayed quiet and listened.

"Where the baby comes from!" Tara cried softly. "I'm bleeding… Something's wrong, something's happened to the baby, or to me…"

Ushatar couldn't help it: he swept his arms around her. She sobbed quietly and said, "I made it happen. I cursed it. I hated it… Oh, Ushatar, I want my baby now… Don't let me lose it like this! Make it stop…"

"I'm gonna get Brodha, all right?" he asked, tears stinging his eyes. How could this be happening? "You lie still now, I'm gonna bring you to your bed, then I'm gonna get Brodha…"

He lifted her gently, relieved that she didn't tense up or otherwise revolt against his touch. "S'okay, _Tarka._ The little one's gonna be fine and so are you." He promised her this, hoping feverishly that he wasn't a liar.

Ushatar lay her down then dashed off to Brodha's _dar._ The healer was within, chatting with a heavily pregnant Orcess.

Brodha saw the _baalak's _ashen face and demanded, "What's happened now? Thought you all _Krankluku_ didn't leave yet, let alone need patching up."

"Tara—" Ushatar choked. "She's bleeding where the baby comes from."

Brodha stood at once, gesturing apologies to her guest. She rushed behind Ushatar up to Tara's cave. The _sharlob_ lay cold and pale in her mix-matched fur blanket, a sheen of sweat over her bone-white face and tears in her grey eyes.

"Now listen here, little one," Brodha murmured, easing Tara onto her back. "Plenty o' young'uns like you bleed a bit the first time 'round. You just relax now, and lie still, and Brodha's gonna have a look. Hold 'er hand, Ushatar, if you like."

Ushatar picked up Tara's hand in a rush, squeezing it gently. "You're gonna be fine," he told her. "Brodha says this happens a lot with little ones like you."

Brodha put her hands on Tara's belly, pushing about, nodding a little. "The _dag_ hasn't dropped yet, but I'd feel better if it kicked at me… Better have a look inside. Put your knees up, Tara," Brodha said, and Tara, in her fear, obeyed thoughtlessly. "My hand's little cold now, girlie," Brodha warned.

Tara's eyes shot open. She whimpered softly, twisting her body. Her eyes caught Ushatar's and then wrenched away, full of tears, and she snatched her hand back from him. Ushatar panicked, confused—he didn't know why Brodha was touching her _there_, but obviously the baby was still where he'd put it… And obviously, Tara did _not_ want anything touching her _there._ Ushatar certainly didn't want anyone _else_ touching here there.

"You're hurting her!" Ushatar hissed.

Brodha replied firmly, "I need to see if she's opening up and letting the baby go. I know, sweeting," the healer murmured to Tara, "Not so comfortable, but try to relax—"

Tara buried her face in her arm and cried, "Stop it, stop it _please!"_

_ "_Stop, Brodha!" Ushatar echoed, his eyes were stinging with tears. Was she _still_ hurt from his poor, rough treatment in Isengard? Or just terrified she _would_ be hurt? Or worst of all, was she broken inside? Tara was sobbing now, covering her face with her arms, her fear thick in the air.

"All right, Tara," Brodha murmured, withdrawing. "It's all right, and I've got good news too. You've not started opening up, so if you rest now, all may still be well."

Brodha glanced down at the sobbing _sharlob_, covering her face with her arms. The healer shook her head softly. "ITry to calm her down, Ushatar." Brodha raised her voice and said, "I think you'll be all right, and the little one too, Tara. Try to rest now. I'll fix you up a nice drink to help you sleep."

Tara, still hiding her face, nodded.

Ushatar watched Brodha go, and then he whispered to Tara, "What happened? Did she hurt you?"

Her answer was a cracked sob, and then she nodded her head tightly.

"It's okay now," he said, lethally furious with himself. "You just rest a little. I'm going out for a while—"

She dropped her arms and showed her tear-streaked face. "Where are you going? Please don't go, Ushatar! I'm so scared I'll lose the baby…"

He was instantly relieved. She didn't hate him again, she wanted his comfort. He brushed his fingers over her cheek, wiping her tears away. "You won't lose the baby," he assured her, hoping against hope it was true. "Brodha said the baby hasn't moved or anything, you heard her, right?"

"No, but that's _bad,_ Ushatar! It _should_ be moving! It did move before, but not for two days and now I'm bleeding…"

"Shh…" he breathed, cupping her face with his hands, the touch she'd taught him that had wrapped him in sweet warmth. He hoped it would do the same for her. "You listen to Brodha, she knows her business, and she said you'll be fine, and the _dag_ will be fine, but you need to be calm and rest—"

"I'm _mortified_," Tara cried softly. "Tell her I'm sorry…"

"For what, _ambal?_ You did nothing wrong. Rest now, please. I'm going out for a bit, I've no choice in it, the Brotherhood's called on me—"

"You're going to _fight? _Ushatar! Who are you fighting? What's happening? Are we under attack again?"

"No, nothing like that. Nothing you need to worry about, all right? Please, _please_ Tara, for the little one's sake… Please just rest."

"It's not _moving_," she cried again. "It moved before—forgive me—" she gasped, "I thought it was nasty, you know, feeling it move inside me…"

Ushatar tried to imagine it, and all he felt was joy at the thought of his baby growing inside her beloved little body. But he tried to consider how she would feel, and he smiled at her and murmured, "It probably does feel gross, and scary for you, there's no blame in that. And you didn't ill-wish the little _dag_, _ambal._ Just rest, do what Brodha says, and all will be well."

Brodha returned then, with a cup of something hot for her to drink. Ushatar smelled _akrum_ and herbs, and he wasn't surprised that Tara's eyes began to flutter drowsily moments after drinking it. "Sleep now," he murmured, stroking her hair back from her brow. When she was out, Ushatar looked up at Brodha, shame in his face. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat, he had to force them out. "Is she… broken? Did I—did I break her?"

"Easy, Ushatar. She's a little scarred up, that's the truth, but she's not _broken_. We'll get her through this, don't worry."

Blinking tears away furiously, he nodded, relieved that she wasn't ruined but horrified that she was _scarred_ from what he'd done. "Brodha… The little one… It's alive in there? And it has to come out the same way it got in? How is that even _possible_? She's so small…"

Brodha lay her capable hand on Ushatar's bare arm. "It's perfectly natural, Ushatar. It's the way all females are made, _sharlobu_ and Orcs, even deer and wolves and such. The body changes as the baby comes, and then it goes back to the way it is usually. But you need to go with Aarth-Anghum and the others now. And take my advice, _Krankluk_, don't come back to her with any red on your sword or clothes."

"No—yeah—I know that. I just don't see how I can go now, with her like this."

"Well, you'd better get your head together, Ushatar, so that you come back to her. The Men have been getting uppity lately, since their victory. Been harassing our hunting parties, even following some of the hunters, as if they're trying to find our home. Your job is to put a little fear into 'em, keep them respecting Orc-folk. Go on, now, warrior. We'll watch over your mate."

* * *

Ushatar couldn't get Tara and the baby off his mind as he lay in wait between Aarth-Anghum and Ras. They'd run to a small village on the outskirts of Rohan, of wattle and daub _daru_ with thatched straw rooftops that would be easy to torch. The village had no defenses whatsoever, and for Ushatar and the other warriors, this raid would be as easy as fighting a bunch of _dagu._ But Ushatar's heart was back in the caverns with Tara and his endangered baby, and for the first time when faced with a fight, Ushatar had no desire to kill.

But when Saalcaf gave the signal he ran in roaring, cutting his way easily through the Men who picked up swords or even farming tools against him. Ushatar tried not to see the women and children cowering before him as he ransacked one home after another, searching methodically for valuables. When he dumped a wooden box over and discovered a necklace of gold and amber, a wild-eyed blonde woman charged at him with her husband's sword.

"_Stay the fuck back!_" Ushatar roared, pointing at her with the tip of his hooked sword. The woman's courage melted away, and she slumped to the floor. The hot scent of a ripe, terrified _sharlob_ engulfed Ushatar, but it held no appeal for him. In fact it reminded him painfully of how desperate he was to get back to Tara. Ushatar snatched the necklace and fled the _sharlob'_s _dar_ just as a firebrand flung by a meaty Orc warrior hit the roof, exploding it in flames.

_I should get her out of there_, Ushatar thought. He shook his head wildly to clear the ridiculous notion. At that moment a Man rushed him with a broadsword, blue eyes blazing in a white face splattered with black Orc blood. Ushatar swung his sword hard, clashing against the broadsword with such power that the blow reverberated through the Man's strong arm. The Man attacked hard, but he was no match for Ushatar. Ushatar thrust his sword through the Man's belly; then, having no desire to cause the Man more suffering, Ushatar yanked his sword back and swiftly decapitated the Man.

He heard Saalcaf screaming then, "Fall back! Fall back to the forest!"

Ushatar turned and ran with the other Orc warriors. The raid had been a great success, and though it was a bloody business all had followed Saalcaf's orders. No women were raped, no children were tortured, and casualties among the Men had been kept to a minimum. Carrying their plunder, the Orcs ran back into the Mountains, and did not see two male riders galloping their horses in the other direction, towards the Fords of Isen, where the new Captain Bergemond, appointed by King Elessar, had set up his camp. Beregemond's orders were simple and plain, and he intended to carry them out as swiftly and methodically as possible.

Every last Orc in the world, every last Uruk, and any who carried their blood, were to be hunted down and slaughtered, from the biggest warriors to the smallest little imp. The Age of Men had come, and they would no longer suffer Orcs to live.

* * *

Ushatar stashed his plunder away in his own cave. For now, there was no need to tell Tara about it. He held up the gold and amber necklace, smiling, thinking of how lovely it would look on her, how she deserved to have such things. _She won't ever need to steal again_, Ushatar thought. _I'll build such a treasury that our baby's babies will never know want, they will never need to rely on the charity of others as I was forced to when I came here._ But he put the necklace away as well, selecting the amethyst that he'd put on a leather cord for her instead. Maybe now she'd take it from him, and at least he wouldn't have to explain where it came from.

Ushatar washed up quickly, changed into fresh clothes, and went to her little cave. He was amazed to see her sitting up. A bright smile illuminated her face, and she beckoned him over with her small hand. He went to her and sat before her. "You are feeling better?" he asked hopefully. She looked sick to death, but that beautiful smile was as a light in the darkness, and her grey eyes glowed with joy.

"Give me your hand," she said, and Ushatar obeyed instantly. She took his big hand and placed it on her belly, and pushed his fingers a little into that hard roundness.

Something—the baby!—pushed back, a sharp little kick against Ushatar's palm. Ushatar gasped, and laughed in delight, looking to Tara with wide eyes. "That's him? That's my little one?"

She nodded, beaming. "It's alive, Ushatar. Our baby is alive and strong."


	36. Chapter 36

"I'm sorry, I'd get up Faalca, but I just feel awful."

"Of course! Don't get up, I'll bring him to you." Faalca sat down beside Tara, cuddling her month-old son Durburz. _Durburz_ was a good Orcish name meaning Strong, but now Faalca, and thus everyone else, called him Brogud: Little Bite. Brogud had Faalca's deep black-brown skin and Ras's tawny golden eyes, and was the first baby of any sort that Tara had ever held in her own arms. She was relieved that despite his pet name, Brodug's fangs were but nubs hidden beneath soft pink gums.

"I want to show you what he can do now," Faalca told her proudly. She unwrapped the swaddling cloth and set the naked baby belly down on Tara's blankets. Immediately the little Orc pushed himself up on his chubby arms, his little head wobbling as he looked around. "You see? He'll be up in no time, running alongside us and learning to hunt. And I hope so, because if I don't get out into the starlight soon and run about a little, I'll go insane."

"Is that normal? To push up so quickly? Human babies are sort of… well, they just kind of lie there at that age."

"Orc babies are stronger, of course," Faalca confirmed. "I can't _wait_ until you drop your little one. What will it look like?"

Tara made a face. "I'm a little afraid of that, Faalca. What if it's… you know, scary looking or... ugly?" It was Tara's last great fear—other than childbirth itself—about the child she'd fought so hard to accept. What if she couldn't connect to it? What if it was too different, what if it was hideous? She thought she loved it—though having never loved anyone before, since her Da betrayed her, she couldn't be sure—and she didn't mind the moving and kicking so much anymore. It was rather like having a conversation. But what if she was repulsed by her own child, when she saw it? The idea of breastfeeding was repellant enough, but how could she nurse a hideous monster?

Faalca clucked her tongue a little in sympathy. "Don't worry, Tara. Ushatar is _beautiful_. And you aren't so terribly ugly, for a _sharlob._ I'm sure the little one will take the best of you both."

Tara dropped her jaw in shock, and then she laughed, and Faalca grinned. If Tara was sure about her feelings for anyone, it was wonderful, brilliant Faalca, who was beautiful as a wild animal could be, or beautiful the way a sword could be, fierce and flawless.

"You're wearing Ushatar's necklace! The purple stone he found for you! Tara!"

Tara bit her lip. Brogud had managed to maneuver himself to face her, and she pulled him close. He _was_ cute... in a scary, predatory way. Big eyes and rounded features seemed to be common in many young things, and the appeal reached across races. "I do like Ushatar a great deal now, Faalca. And I like how wonderful he is to me all the time now. He never, never lets me be sad or frightened, or anything bad, without trying to help me out of it. I thought I hated that- Or, really, I thought I _would_ hate that, for I'd never had it. But it's... Faalca, he almost got himself killed trying to protect me. And I _wanted_ to protect him, I killed for him! Granted I killed an Uruk-hai would would have done worse to me... But... I..."

"You didn''t want him to die. You want him beside you," Faalca supplied.

"I don't know. But I like to watch him, drawing or caring for his weapons. He moves… so gracefully, for all his size and strength. I do like him."

"So…" Faalca grinned, "After the little one is born, maybe you will end his suffering and let him crawl into your furs sometimes?"

"Oh, Faalca—damn, I—" Tara lost her smile, and she shook her head. "I don't think… The very idea of it turns my stomach. Even without the pain—" Tara shook her head, as if shaking the memory away. "It's just disgusting. I don't like things _touching _me."

Faalca arched her eyebrow delicately. "There's quite a difference between _things_ touching you and your mate touching you, your _udalgurz_!" The Orcess laughed merrily and said, "Oh, Tara, you have no idea! Ras… he can all but read my mind. It's beautiful. You will see, I hope! I can see you think about it sometimes..."

Tara-full of late pregnancy emotion-burst into tears. "No, Faalca… Maybe if it hadn't happened before—if a _lot_ of things hadn't happened to me before—maybe then I could try… But not when I know how —Like being ripped apart, Faalca, clawed, gutted… I can't, I _can't_ do it again. I couldn't even stand for Brodha to check on me when I thought I'd lose the baby…"

"Tara, poor Tara," Faalca whispered, picking up Brogud and swaddling him again with quick, gentle hands. "Don't cry, Tara, please don't cry."

"He's building a _dar_, you know," Tara stammered, wiping her eyes furiously. She pushed herself up, ignoring the wild nausea that hit her as soon as she sat. "For the little one to have a proper home, he says… Been trading for hides and hunting like mad for rich, warm furs, and he's carving poles all the time… I can see how proud he is, I can see how much he wants me to tell him I'll stay with him, that the baby will be with him all the time, in the _dar_ he builds with his own hands… And I _can't_, I can't, and that's the _only_ reason why… _Shit!_"

"I'm sorry Tara! Don't be so upset! It will work out—"

"No, no!" Tara gasped, cringing tightly. "It hurts—_Oh!" _

She could hardly move for the pain, but she lifted up the fur and saw everything from the waist down soaked with clear fluid. "The baby's coming _now?"_

"I'll get Brodha," Faalca said, quick on her feet. "And Ushatar, right? Tara? You want him to see his little one born?"

Tara nodded, and then the pain gripped harder in her belly and she screamed."Faalca _hurry!"_

* * *

"Can it live so early?" Ushatar demanded. "It needs nine moons, right?"

"Orc babies can come faster, around eight moons, so likely your _dag_ is taking after your Orcish side. And even if not, it should be whole enough. I thought she looked like the _dag_ was dropping."

"_Brodha!"_ Tara screamed again, bracing her back, arching as if her body was trying to get away from the fierce pain.

"I want her up, Ushatar. Squatting. You'll need to get behind her and support her. You hear me Tara? You're going to squat, to help the babe fall out."

"Oh no, no I'm _not_, Brodha!" Tara panted. "I _can't_ sit up!"

Ushatar snapped his eyes back to Brodha. "She says she can't."

"But she will," Brodha said firmly. She shot a hard look at Ushatar and added, "She'll need to call on all her strength to get through this. She needs to be tough now, do you understand?"

Ushatar read Brodha's unspoken message: Tara could die if she didn't draw up her strength. He scrambled behind her and murmured, "All right, Tara, come on. Up you go." He sat with his legs spread wide, slipped his arms under her shoulders and pulled Tara up against his chest. "You do the rest now," he breathed in her ear. "Come on, Tara. You're a fighter, and you need to fight now. You need to be strong like I know you are."

She nodded and pulled her feet beneath her. Digging her nails into Ushatar's arm, Tara brought herself up to a squat. Brodha quickly pushed Tara's leather wrap over her knees. Tara turned away, pressing her chin to her shoulder. "_Fuck_ this hurts…" she gasped.

"But the little one's coming now," Ushatar whispered. "Sometimes there's good hurts, Tara. I know that sounds foolish to you, but think of it. Hurt now,_ baby_ next. So fight now, be brave."

"Can we come _in_ yet?" a voice called from outside.

"Shari," Tara breathed, grinning.

"It's Orcish way," Brodha said. "All the family gathers around, keeps you company."

Tara closed her eyes, breathing hard. There were too many feelings confusing her, and the ripping pain of the two contractions she'd experience were terrifying. And… and it was bad enough she'd agreed to have Ushatar present! And _that_ only if he stayed _behind_ her. If Tara could have given birth in a dark box, that would have been her way. And yet there was a part of her that was powerfully drawn to it: Orcish way. She nodded her head. Ushatar—perpetually wide-eyed since the whole thing began—grinned and wished he could kiss her.

"She said come!" Brodha called, and Shari and Faalca, Nemlii and Daumani bustled into the cave and plopped around the fire, all excited smiles.

"Male or female?" Nemlii asked the others, and Tara grinned curiously.

"Female," Faalca said, eyeing Tara up. Tara smiled at her: Faalca, begrudged of a daughter, was now cheering for a female for Tara and Ushatar.

"Male," Shari said, firmly denying herself a look at Ushatar's sprawled legs. Brodha chuckled, shaking her head.

"Mmm…. Male," Daumani decided, rubbing her own growing belly.

"Well I'll go with female, then, so Faalca's not alone. Losers make us all a little feast, agreed?"

"You all are _betting_ on my _baby?"_ Tara demanded, laughing breathlessly. She felt Ushatar's arms tighten on her briefly at the sound of her laughter. Both of their spirits were fortified by the light, confident presence of the other females.

"Don't worry," Faalca said. "You get the feast either way."

Tara glowed for a moment, but it was cut off when her belly gripped again. She didn't want to scream before her friends, but it flew out of her mouth anyway. She clasped her hand to her mouth and bit her forefinger, tears rushing down her face. It hurt so badly her vision seemed blurry, detached. _S'okay… Shh…._ Ushatar was whispering in her ear, so low no one but Tara could hear him.

"Oh, damn!" she gasped finally, as the pain subsided. She couldn't help leaning back completely on Ushatar, and she realized belatedly that as she bit her finger, her other hand was wrenching at his arm, digging her nails into his flesh. "Sor—I'm sorry—"

"Vicious creature," he murmured, laughing softly. Tara couldn't be sure, but she thought his lips brushed her hair above her temple. The pain had racked her and her mind was muddled.

"Ooh, she's brave," Shari said. "I'll be screaming curses and biting and all else when my time comes."

"I'll tell Ras to warn Saalcaf," Faalca drolled, shaking her head. "You all right, Tara?"

"Y—yes…" Tara nodded, then said firmly, "Yes. Gotta… show… you Orc wenches up."

Ushatar sighed and lay his cheek against her hair, braced for her to shake him away. When she didn't, he closed his eyes and wondered how he of all creation came to be blessed with Tara. _Maybe the Orcs are wrong,_ he thought. _Maybe the High Powers don't despise us. How else could my life have become this?_ He bit his tongue not to sigh her name aloud.

Ushatar indulged himself in this delirious joy: Tara, in his arms and not tensing up or pulling away, giving birth to his young—_his_, not the Master's—and all surrounded by female Orcs cheering her. He became aware of the low, warm rumbling in his chest, and then he knew she heard it too, and yet her cheek was resting against his upper arm. She wasn't afraid of him. Faalca had advised her to focus on her breath, and Tara was fighting and winning. _And soon my _dag _will be born… _

Ushatar didn't have long to soak in this wonder. He felt her cringe and then tighten again, a moment before she cried out. He slid his palm over her belly and felt the hard contraction of her muscles. "Strong Tara," he breathed quietly, amazed.

But her screaming got worse, and the pain started coming back more often, and though Tara rallied each time it was with a little less and less. Ushatar's baby was a bully, big and eager to come into the world. The full assault of labor came fast, and the pain chased Tara like a beast, trapping on her heels and pushing her relentlessly. "I can't—"

She shook her head, unaware now of almost everything but the gripping, miserable pain of childbirth. It beat her mercilessly and eventually she hung like a limp thing in Ushatar's arms, and she couldn't feel or see the terror that caused him. She couldn't see Brodha clucking around her, slapping at her cheeks and wiping her brow with cool water. Her friends had fallen into urgent silence long ago.

Somehow Tara became aware of movement, change. A new hurt, but one that paled as all the pressure—and then the better part of all her agony—slipped away. A high, angry little voice squealed in protest, and Tara heard gasps and laughter.

"A _female?"_ Ushatar whispered, his voice shaken and struck with emotion. Tara raised her head a little, saw a flash of grey smeared in black in Brodha's arms, a damp rag cleaning the black off.

Everything in her lurched and she moaned, and she heard Faalca cry for Brodha. Her head hung down and she saw her own red blood pooling thick around her toes, and then she knew nothing more. Tara slipped into blackness.


	37. Chapter 37

Drained by blood loss and exhaustion, Tara wavered in and out of consciousness. She was freezing, shaking so hard her teeth felt ready to break. She couldn't open her eyes, but she heard snatches of sounds. A high, soft, mewing cry, and the sounds of females hushing and cooing. _Bank that fire up_, the oldest female voice said.

_She's shaking, Brodha! She's so damned cold!_

Tara knew that voice, but she couldn't decide if it was a terror or a deep, deep comfort, nor could she understand how it could be both things at once.

_That'll be the blood she lost. Cover her good now. Go ahead and lie behind her, give her your warmth._

And then the bitter cold washed away, and Tara felt a powerful heat engulfing her, arms like stone coming round her and drawing her into the lovely, lovely warmth. She smelled a heavy, heavy male scent—something between an animal and a man, blood, and winter wind—and she understood that she was safe and pain would not touch her again. She passed into sleep.

Sometime later—no time at all to the exhausted young woman, in deep dreamless sleep—Tara felt the heat of a hard fire on her cheeks. Nestled deep in furs, Tara woke with an uncommon feeling of security, and for some reason she thought of her mother, thought she was a little girl again curled up in bed with the woman whose face she could only remember in dreams.

Then she heard a high pitched mewling sound, the tiny cries of some non-human creature, and at once she was conscious. She opened her eyes, and saw Ushatar sitting by the fireside in awe of something bundled in silver-tipped wolf fur. Brodha stood gazing over his shoulder, and she could hear the soft rumbling sound that she'd come to associate with Ushatar's extreme pleasure or joy.

"He—hey—" Tara croaked, and the Uruk-hai warrior and Orc healer turned to her with bright, expectant faces. Ushatar's eyes were liquid with tears, and he tried to speak to her and found there were no words.

"Told you so," Brodha crowed gently to Ushatar. "Welcome back, Tara dear. How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," she breathed hoarsely. "That's—that's it? The baby?"

"Her," Ushatar murmured, standing up with painstaking care. "A _female_. Maybe the first ever born."

Tara couldn't take her eyes off of Ushatar. Everything came back to her: his strong arms holding her up through the birth, his soft encouragement breathed in her ear, even a strong dream-like memory of being held in his arms, which were so _warm_, where she'd come to no harm. And he'd certainly wept, which was as odd as could be on his hard features. He knelt before her, his face deadly serious and yet full of pride and sweetness. No one had ever looked at Tara with such open eyes. "Ready?"

She nodded, and Ushatar placed the bundle down beside her. Tara drew a little breath for courage—still apprehensive about what'd come out of her—and peered over into the thick fur.

She promptly lost her breath.

"See how good you did?" Ushatar asked quietly, sitting next to her.

Tara couldn't speak: she was caught by a bright, alert pair of silver-grey eyes—_her _eyes—surrounded by impossibly thick, long black lashes. But that was where humanity ended, and truth be told, there wasn't much human to begin with in those glossy star-struck depths. The baby girl was Ushatar's slate-grey color, and behind the infantile plumpness Tara saw his sharp, high cheekbones and smooth clean-cut jawline. Then Tara realized that baby's lips were just like hers, full and prone to pouting, but a deeper grey than her skin, with the slightest hint of the black blood that flowed in her veins. She had parts of Tara, but she was completely Uruk-hai, and Tara shook her head in astonishment, whispering, "She's _beautiful_."

"You like her, Tara?" Ushatar asked, a slight catch in his voice.

Tara couldn't take her eyes off the baby. She wanted to examine every part of the child, commit it to memory forever. "Ushatar—I _love_ her. She's so lovely! Like a little star…"

"A _big_ star," Brodha laughed. "You're little body just had enough, decided she'd have to make do as she was. But she's strong, she's ready to join the world."

The baby gave her little mewing cry again, so _different_ from the howling squall of a human infant, and Tara laughed softly. She pulled the wolf-fur down a bit and a little grey hand—plump, with thick, strong, sheer fingernails—shot out to explore. Tara put her own pale finger against the little palm, and the baby grasped on tightly. "She's so strong!"

Ushatar bit his lip, hardly able to contain his pride, or the surging of some powerful warm emotion in his heart that made him wonder if it was possible to die from joy. He couldn't take his eyes off Tara and his newborn.

Tara laughed again: the baby'd pulled her finger to its perfect little mouth and started sucking frantically. Tara pressed her fingers gently on the baby's gums, feeling nothing but two little nubs on top where her upper canines would be. Even still, the baby had a strong jaw. "I don't care how tough you'll be," Tara murmured, "I'll always look out for you."

Ushatar couldn't bear the distance anymore. He slid closer, his thigh near Tara's face, and he put his hand on her shoulder, full of gentle but earnest possession. Tara—perfectly content—thoughtlessly shrugged her shoulder up so that she could lay her cheek against Ushatar's hand, and he quite lost his mind.

"She'll be getting hungry, Tara. That's why she's sucking like that. She won't howl for you like you probably did as a little one, but she'll make her little cries, and she'll work her mouth and try to suck whatever's near it."

Tara's nerves crept back in, though the hazy glow of new motherhood kept it from going too far. "I don't know what to do, Brodha. I mean, I've seen it done, but I never really cared to watch or ask questions. And…" Tara closed her mouth before she said that feeding her own child seemed embarrassing, which suddenly was utterly absurd to her. The baby needed her: there was nothing more to it. "I just don't know what to do."

"It's not all that hard, she'll know what to do when you put her in the right spot."

"Um… Ushatar…" Tara looked up at him, wide-eyed, and she heard the faintest little moan of disappointment in his throat. _Of course,_ she thought, _he'd want to see his baby nursing. _But she wasn't sure she could show herself to him so intimately.

"I'll bet you're hungry," he said. "Your friends went to make you some food, it should be ready now. I'll go get it."

Tara nodded. Once he was gone, Brodha helped Tara sit up. Tara unlaced the front of her gown and shyly slipped it off her shoulders. The little girl was much heavier than Tara expected—her bones were thick like Ushatar's—but Tara cradled her carefully. Brodha was right: the little one knew what to do, and Tara had been wrong entirely. It was a peaceful thing, a loving thing, to feed her strange and beautiful child. Tara smiled and smoothed her fingers over the baby's short, soft black hair, and rocked the little one gently as she nursed herself to sleep.

That night, Ushatar couldn't hold back any longer. He passed his precious daughter back into Tara's arms and said, "Don't make me leave you tonight. Don't make me leave her. I swear, I _swear_…" he breathed, staring at Tara with the fire glowing in his eyes and desperation on his face. "I won't hurt you, I won't bother you. I just wanna know you're safe, and she's safe… I want to be with you both so much…"

Tara brushed her messy black hair behind her ear, her lips pouting as she switched her eyes from Ushatar's face to the swaddled baby in the wicker cradle that Nemlii's made for her. It seemed appallingly cruel, after everything, to keep Ushatar away from his daughter. She worried her lip a little between her smooth white teeth, thinking that if he'd not touched her since they'd left that awful prison, then surely, _surely_ now wouldn't be the time, with her fresh from childbed. Tara had an unbidden memory of being enclosed in his warm, protective grasp. "All right, Ushatar," she agreed, helpless to her own smile as he perked up with wild joy. Tara laughed a little at his exuberance and said, "You can stay- I want you to stay with us."

Ushatar bent down quickly and swept a kiss over his daughter's smooth grey brow, whispering to the baby that she was precious. As he came back up, he froze, caught in Tara's gaze. He was so close she could feel his breath, so close she saw the spark of boldness in his eyes. Ushatar leaned forward and brushed his warm lips softly against Tara's. Her heart flipped dramatically, and she forgot how to breathe.

"Thank you," Ushatar whispered, and then he pulled away, and retreated to the other side of the fire while Tara sat in wide-eyed amazement: not that he had kissed her, the exact way she'd shown him how months before, but that now—with no chance that he would take it farther than she could handle—Tara wanted Ushatar to kiss her again.


	38. Chapter 38

"I am not content," Lord Captain Bergemond mused grimly, fixating on a map of Middle Earth, centered around the reclaimed tower of Orthanc. "Examine here, Corporal, the villages attacked, and the dates."

Bergemond took up a quill and dipped it in ink as black as Orc blood, and sliced a curving line through the scattering of villages, an area some two hundred and forty miles long, then cast his hard grey eyes around the table to his subordinates. "All survivors say the same thing: this was no large army. We hear one hundred, one hundred fifty as the high count, and two dozen as the lowest. We may assume somewhere in between."

"So, more survivors, making their way northwest?"

Bergemond tightened his thin lips in thought. "This was no mindless attack. Indeed, we do not even see blood-lust, though there have been many deaths. We ought to look for locals, perhaps those who remained behind when the Enemy called. Yes, I suspect they are local raiders. Think, in comparison: a well run street gang, from the slum quarter of Osgiliath."

The young Corporal flinched a little, thinking of the loss.

"These goblins, these Orcs, are making systematic chaos on the people of Rohan for _plunder_—and likely we would see some attacks on the Men of the Wood who have sued us for peace, if they reported them. If you look at the pattern of villages attacked, you begin to see a clear arc, a crescent if you will. The question is, where do these paths radiate from? Somewhere in here—" Bergemond thrust the quill in again, tapped off the splashing black drips, and drew a hard circle over the southern half of the Misty Mountains, "—is their nest, where they bring their spoils and multiply in the darkness. Now, the Orcs who lived in these mountains not terribly long ago were annihilated in battle, but there are always some survivors. We also have a community in Mount Gram, but most of those answered Sauron's Call, the same for many in the Ettenmoors. Both groups had been seen moving south in the Mountains in days past, and could have colonized. Those Orcs were bigger. We will start with the assumption that these are the survivors and descendants of the Battle of Five Armies—thus would travel twenty to thirty miles in a night—and work our way out for Greater Orcs."

"What shall we do when we find them, sir?"

Beregemond tossed the quill like a knife, point down into the pool of ink. "We eradicate them and move on to the next lot, Lord Darian. Quite simple."

* * *

Ushatar—fist in mouth—bit his forefinger. He couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't trust himself. Now he knew why he'd been able to restrain himself around Tara for so long: she'd been pregnant and the dual scents of her and the baby had soothed him to a point he could ignore his insane need to possess her always.

Now that she was _not_ pregnant, Ushatar's cock seemed to be convinced that she should be that way again, as quickly as possible. Just a few days ago, he'd caught the subtle change in her scent indicating she was about to be ripe and fertile. He was relieved that he'd stopped sleeping in her cave—at Tara's insistence as her body shrank and her blood dried up—because he didn't trust himself anywhere _near_ Tara lying down.

Ushatar spent the afternoon setting up his _dar_, honored to have a place near Saalcaf. Though he was frustrated and hopeless, in despair of _ever_ mating again, and a little unnerved to have his daughter sleeping away from him, Ushatar was determined to have the little one in comfort whenever Tara allowed it.

They had named the beautiful Uruk-hai child Ilzin, after the cold, polar star. Ushatar had been surprised and pleased when Tara was adamant about finding a name in Black Speech. She wanted him to speak his own tongue to Ilzin; she hinted that she wanted to learn, from _him,_ not from Faalca or Brodha.

And maybe, if his cock wouldn't smack him in the belly every time she got too close, he might get around to teaching her... Ushatar sighed and dropped the heavy wooden trunk into the small pit he'd dug out. He'd done well with Saalcaf and the Brotherhood. His trunk was full of copper coins and bracelets, nothing elaborate, but the horse-breeders were a prosperous people and even the simple villages had wealth. Shiny things didn't mean shit to Ushatar, but he knew enough about the world to think that Tara and Ilzin should have a treasury.

"Ushatar! You in there?"

"Be right there, Angha!" Ushatar put the wooden planks back into place and lay down the thick bear-fur rug. He stood with his hands on his hips and examined his _dar._ It was a sanctuary of comfort. The only bit of bare earth was around the hearth, and the path leading to it from the entranceway. The rest of the floor was covered in rich, warm furs for Ilzin to crawl on. His scraped hides hung from the tent walls, insulating the _dar_, but also displaying his two largest drawings: the view from the promontory, and a full portrait of a wolf that Ushatar had come across while hunting in the forest. Aside from the drawing of Tara, kept in his trunk, Ushatar thought the wolf was by far his best work yet.

He had a good set of carved ivory cups, and two red silks, and some jewelry for Tara including a precious silver torque bracelet with horseheads on the ends; all of that he hid. He had a feeling that Tara knew he went on raids, but he was afraid she'd pull away from him when she learned he'd been attacking villages of Men. That would have to be shared later, if ever.

And painfully, Ushatar doubted if _later_ would ever come. She let him close—sometimes holding his hand while playing with Ilzin, sometimes leaning her head on his shoulder—and she laughed openly; she even nursed her baby beside him, albeit covered up by her clothes. But then—for no reason at all, and usually when she seemed happiest—she'd turn cold and run away from him. Maybe he was to be punished forever for taking her. When that thought was too bitter, he remembered what Brodha said: Tara had scars, he'd torn her up, and if she never allowed him to mate with her again it was only what he deserved.

But even if he deserved it, it still felt like fucking death.

Ushatar stepped out of his _dar._ He noted Aarth Anghum's alarm immediately. "Trouble?"

"I don't know. Five hunters went out this morning and didn't return. There can be avalanches this time of year, hungry wargs—who we no longer ally with—coming down from the interior, all types of new dangers in winter. Twilight's coming, I thought I'd take a look around for our kin."

"I'll join you," Ushatar said quickly. "I'll take my spears, too, fucking wargs. Can't stand them."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Aarth-Anghum said. "You know as well as I that sometimes you can chase game a little too far from home, and then the sun gets strong, so Orcs will hunker down in the shade until the sun weakens enough to be safe. All the same, they could need our help."

* * *

Tara loved the Orcish baby-slings. Made from skins—usually doeskin—and worked lovingly until near as soft and supple as linen, Tara could hold Ilzin to her chest and with her gown discretely unlaced, the baby could nurse as she needed. Or if Tara had to work-ever so grateful she was to be herself again, and strong-sharing large tasks like butchering meat, scraping hides, or even making clothes, then she could position Ilzin on her back and the baby would be lulled to sleep by Tara's motion.

Ilzin had taught Tara beyond all doubts what love was. She could laugh now at herself, scorning babies since she was one herself, mocking the girls who seemed to live for nothing else but the day they got pregnant. Her love for Ilzin had no depth and no limits. She loved her more perhaps for being unique: not only Uruk-hai, but female. Tara wept the night Ushatar told her what would have happened to Ilzin had they not left. Having no use for females, Ushatar's old Master would have disposed of her as soon as her gender was known. Tara was all the more fiercely protective of the baby after that… if that was even possible.

Ilzin was much bigger already than the Orc babies of the same age. She was even bigger than Brogud, and at two moons she was up on hands and knees, rocking back and forth and cooing, eager to crawl. She was brighter for certain than a Man's child: her alert eyes followed the smallest motion, and already her lips curved into a small open-mouthed smile, as if she was laughing at the same time. When Ushatar picked her up she squealed, so that Tara could believe she was delighted. She made the same little rumbles and purrs as Ushatar did, though without any depth or danger, and Tara studied her hard, learning much about both _dag_ and sire.

Tara loved to bring Ilzin to play with Brogud. Both babies were extremely different than human babies would be, already recognizing each other, already encouraging each other to move about and try to get close. Faalca predicted they would wrestle with they finally did crawl to each other. She also said Ilzin had dreamy eyes, and Tara too noticed that the baby spent a long while staring at things, delighting in their form. Tara had smiled to herself, a secret smile, and thought, _she gets that from her father._ Tara hoped Ushatar would put his charcoal in Ilzin's little hands in years to come, to see what the Uruk girl would draw.

"Faalca!" Tara called, walking up on Faalca and Ras's _dar. _Tara knew that Ras would be in the smithy, as most of the warrior Orcs did what Tara could only call apprenticeships with the master smiths like Aarth-Anghum. Ushatar went as well, and had made some decent knives.

"Come in, Tara!" Faalca called, a hurried note to her voice. Going into Faalca's comfortable _dar_, Tara widened her eyes. Brogud was nowhere to be found, and Faalca was slipping a leather gauntlet onto her arm. She had her bow and quiver on her back, and a warm leather coat lined with rabbit fur, and her long braids were knotted at the nape of her smooth dark neck. Faalca met Tara's eyes as she buckled the last strap. "I have to get out for a while, Tara. I can't stay pent up in here anymore. I need to _run._"

"Where's the baby? What about Ras?"

Faalca shrugged roughly. "Brogud's with my sister, she's nursing now and will feed him if he hungers. Ras doesn't want me to go, but he has no good reason for it. He should know better by now, then to tell me where and when to hunt!"

"Faalca, no." Tara shook her head, grimacing a little at the idea. "I've been attacked within an hour's walk of here. No one should go out alone, _especially_ a female."

"I know these mountains like the lines on my palms, Tara! And I know everything in them, and straight truth, my senses are a whole lot stronger than yours. I've shot a warg down before, _and_ stroked one that I met watering at the stream. You don't have to worry about me."

Ilzin, peering out of Tara's sling, squealed quietly when Faalca stood up.

"Just wait for Ras, Faalca? He won't be long!"

Faalca grinned. "I'll be back soon, stop fussing!"

Tara shook her head. "You're too damn stubborn, Faalca," she said, but her friend dashed away.

* * *

Ushatar growled with deep, gut anger. Someone had made a line, as long as perhaps ten of Ushatar lying down, on one side of the rushing mountain tributary. They had stuck spears in the ground along the line; on those spears, the heads of the five clan hunters. Their bodies lay in the river, half eaten by scavengers, their blood carried away by the crashing whitewater.

"Horses," Aarth-Anghum said quietly.

"Men of Rohan?" Ushatar hissed

"Most likely. Though—There is the new _tark _Durub," Aarth-Anghum said quietly. "We'd better run back, tell the others."

"What about _them!?"_ Ushatar demanded wildly. "We can't just leave them! That's what my Master did, that's not our way!"

"Ushatar…" Aarth-Anghum, wise in his advanced years, murmured sickly, "If Men are hunting Orcs here, the clan must know right away. Before anyone else goes out unaware. That is most important."

* * *

Ushatar and Aarth-Anghum ran into the cavern so fast they still puffed icy breaths into the warm, smoky air. They dashed toward's Saalcaf's _dar_, and filled him in quickly.

"Call a meeting to the upper hall," Saalcaf ordered, his face grim. "No—_display_—like this has been shown from Men since the last great battle, when our kind fought Elves and Men, and the wizard who commanded the Eagles."

Ushatar growled low, low in his throat, thinking of _wizards._

"May be they want battle again," Aarth-Anghum warned.

Saalfac curled his lips contemptuously, angrily, and bereaved for his clansmen. "Then let them come. We will face any threat, and live or die on our feet, never our knees!"

Suddenly a mad howl echoed from the entrance to the cavern. Someone was roaring, screaming, and soon Ushatar saw what it was.

Ras, wild with fury and grief, held Faalca in his arms, but for a moment Ushatar didn't understand how he held her so bent up.

Then it came to him in hideous understanding.

The Men had cut Ras's mate into pieces.


	39. Chapter 39

Tara saw the crowd rushing to Ras. Not having seen Faalca in his arms, she had some hope that her dearest friend was only injured. Clutching Ilzin protectively, Tara hastened towards the gathering Orcs.

She couldn't help the scream that tore from her throat seeing what was left of Faalca. She wailed in horror and dropped to her knees; for Ilzin's sake she forced her screams back down, holding her daughter tightly as she sobbed over her friend's body. Whoever—whatever—had attacked the huntress had cut her apart with cold, emotionless precision. Tara moaned in agony, shaking her head, willing reality away, as if this was nothing but a nightmare to wake from.

With the swiftness of a predator's leap, Ushatar swept down on Tara. He was behind her then, to draw her back from the gory sight. "Come, Tara," he breathed hard. "Come away, _ambal_, come now…"

She wouldn't budge, shaking her head and weeping over Faalca's remains. Saalcaf and Aarth-Anghum dropped down beside Ras, hissing and murmuring to him, trying to cut through the Orc's wailing, roaring horror, trying to make sense of what had happened.

"It was _Men_!" Ras screamed finally. "Men with dark hair and silver helms—horses—they _strung_ _her up_—Faalca, Faalca…" Ras gathered the remains of his mate close, hugging them, madly trying to put her together again. Saalcaf put his hand on Ras's back in support, but the Orc had gone wild in his grief and he threw off his leader. His unstable eyes roved about, catching Tara's face, widening in fury. "_Men like HER!"_ Ras screamed. "They follow her! She is an _enemy! It's her fault!"_

Ushatar leaped before Tara, roaring in furious challenge. Ras jumped up and rushed at Ushatar, careless of the Uruk's size and power.

"No, no!" Aarth-Anghum shouted, grabbing Ras before he ran to his death. "Help me! Saalcaf!"

Saalcaf and four other warriors jumped in, holding Ras back, ignoring the furious slashing of his claws and the agonized, furious curses he bellowed at Tara. Ushatar would have ripped Ras's head clean off but for Aarth-Anghum's outstretched arm, palm up to Ushatar, begging the Uruk to stand down.

"Let me _go!" _Ras howled, straining and fighting with all he had. Saalcaf finally brought him down, pinned him on the ground and sat on his chest, hissing harsh words of command in a desperate attempt to bring Ras back to sense, even if he might never be sane again.

"Think of Brogud!" Saalcaf shouted finally, but Ras was beyond care.

It took seeing the other warriors sitting on Ras for Ushatar's black rage to smother a little, and, still shaking with fury, Ushatar backed away and squatted down by a sobbing Tara. "Let's go," he whispered, his breath ragged. "Let's go, Tara."

She wouldn't move, so he lifted her in his arms, and brought her to his _dar._

Ushatar carefully took Ilzin from her sling, and set her down in her cradle. He gave her a hard strip of jerky to suck on, like the old Orcesses did, and then he dropped to Tara's side, heartbroken by her grief. For a long while Tara just sobbed, and though Ushatar wanted to take her in his arms, he did no more than stroke her back softly.

"Men?" she wept softly. "Men did this to her?"

Ushatar brushed her tear-soaked hair from her face. "We've… we've been at war a long time…"

"No!" Tara hissed bitterly. "That is not _war!_ Faalca… what did she do to anyone, ever? What is here that Men would _want_? Why make war?"

Ushatar swallowed hard, and did not tell her the truth. His eyes flickered to Ilzin and he grit his teeth over the growl that rose from his gut. _They will come for us now,_ he thought. _The Power is defeated, and though He made us slaves… Now that He is gone, the Men will come for us. They will not see the difference._

As if thinking the same way, though without understanding, Tara demanded, "What is the _difference?_ Between what your old Master put you to… and killing Faalca, a _mother_, a _female…_ What _chance_ did she have against armed _knights?_ Oh, _Eru, Eru…" _Tara imagined it, Faalca and her bow, running away but firing on them, and the horses running her down…

Tara understood it then: they'd not _seen_ a young female, running for her life, running to her mate and child. They'd seen an _Orc._

She fell into sobs again, mixing Faalca and Ilzin together, breaking Ushatar's heart into pieces because he knew she had grasped it. He went to a trunk and pulled out a flask of _akrum_, then sat beside her and took a long drink. He handed the canteen sideways, and Tara took a hard swallow, then cupped her face in her hands, crying into the darkness as the strong liquor warmed her, and slowly helped her catch her breath.

Tara turned to Ushatar, eyes shining with grief, but purpose now. "Ushatar," she whispered. When he turned to her, she leaned into his chest. Her hands snaked around his back, as he sat still and tried not even to breathe. He felt her small hands creep under his leather shirt, pressing against his skin to still their trembling.

"Tara—" he croaked, shaking his head hard. _What the fuck is she doing? What the fuck is she doing! All right, Ushatar… just… don't… breathe…_ He bit his lip with a sharp fang, hoping for a spark of pain to dull the other, more dangerous thing he was feeling; but it was no good, his senses were all mixed up and even pain was pleasure, as if the hard bite had come from _her_ mouth. He was one ripple of feeling from slamming her on her back. "Tara, stop— Stop— _Please… _I can't…"

"Yes you can," she breathed, looking up to him. She nodded, took her hand off his back and lay it against his cheek. "I want to be your mate, Ushatar."

Stupefied, Ushatar could only stare at her, his eyes liquid amber.

"Yes," she said again. Tara crept up on her knees and looked into Ushatar's eyes. She slowly kissed his bloody mouth. A hard sigh came out of his lips, his breath warm, ticking her face. "No more death," Tara whispered. "No more war. No more _sorrow."_

She kissed him again, deeply now. He felt her tongue push his lips open, tasting him, sending fire through his limbs. Terrified and desperate, he put her off again, holding her face in his hands a breath away from his. "You are sure? Tara?"

"_Yes…"_ she breathed, urgent, her mouth snatching for his. Ushatar was sure he'd die, ruin it, tear her up again. He didn't know what to do, now that the moment he'd desired above anything had come.

"Will you… I want to see you…if you mean it." _There,_ he thought, knowing how shy she was with her body. And her small hands came up, and tugged free the laces of her simple leather dress. Ushatar swallowed as she pulled the gown up, revealing her small ivory body. She looked at him again, in her iron eyes all the grimness of her kin, yet softened by a welling of grief and desire. She deliberately pulled her long hair over one shoulder, revealing the fading pink scar on her throat, stunning Ushatar with the sudden heat in her gaze.

Tara slid back to the soft, thick fur, laying down on her back. Ushatar stared for a moment, feasting his eyes—it was such a new sight to him, not only for _her_, his love, but to see her willing, something no female had been for him ever before. He breathed in the air, and knew there was no mistake, she was true.

Ushatar crawled over to her, not caring that his eyes were wet again. She wanted _him_, however he was. He pinned Tara in with his arms, holding himself over her, waiting for that last moment refusal, a sudden gale of coldness to blow her warm, inviting scent away. When it didn't come, Ushatar slipped out of his clothes and lowered himself onto her, shuddering to feel her body crushed beneath his once more.

_Slowly,_ she whispered, and Ushatar pulled his hips back, denying the pounding desire to be inside her as fast as possible. _Slowly,_ he told himself, as she took his face in her hands and brought his mouth to hers.

Tara could taste his blood still. She felt when the change shuddered through him, and his hesitation whispered away. She sighed and closed her eyes as his mouth left hers, travelled to her chin, to her throat. He grazed his sharp fangs over her throat, closing them softly on her skin and making her flesh chill and quiver; releasing his grasp, a gentle pantomime of the fierce, feral thing he'd done before. At the same time his hands swept over her, light but possessive and determined, the slow advance of exploration over newly claimed territory. _His touch,_ Tara thought, _Oh, his touch…_

Her legs came up around his hips of their own accord, and Ushatar did not delay. Her gasp shuddered and she tipped her head back, eyes closed, breath snatched. Ushatar tasted her breasts, grasped her throat softly in his hand, kissed her chin as it jerked up to him. He felt her hand shoot down, slap against his thigh and hold him still, and he lingered halfway into her, his breath going ragged. Tara opened her eyes again—catching him again, as she first did so long ago—and tears came back to his eyes. Ushatar felt a violent shock of possession flame through him, as violent as death and sweeter than anything he'd ever known. He took her face in his hands, seeing her every breath, perhaps her every thought, knowing what would come a moment before her fingernails dug into his thigh and pulled him back into to her. Her sigh wrapped around him as he filled her completely. He felt a thrill of terror—wondering if she was bloody again—then the greater thrill of understanding that she wasn't, that this was what it was supposed to be.

Ushatar wrapped Tara in his arms, and felt her hands on his back, nails softly digging. Her soft moan of surrender and pleasure breathed into his ear as he began to rock against her, claiming his mate at last.

* * *

Tara was asleep tangled in Ushatar's arms, her head on his shoulder, when the call Ushatar expected finally came. Forgoing courtesty, Saalcaf poked his head into Ushatar's _dar_, though the leader kept his eyes averted. No words were needed between them, and Saalcaf quickly withdrew, standing outside the _dar_ in wait.

Ushatar disengaged Tara with aching regret. He brushed her hair back and kissed her cheek softly, then stood and pulled Ilzin—sleeping safe in her wicker cradle—to Tara's side. Then Ushatar pulled his clothes back on, and followed Saalcaf to the war council.

_Inspiration for this chapter:_

www.

youtube.

com/watch?v=

/Xv3Kxg56Dak

(broken to get past http bar)


	40. Chapter 40

"There," Bergemond said coolly, pointing his mail-covered finger down into a gulch. A dozen dark shapes, shadowed in twilight, made their way through the snow, then squatted as if to confer. "As easy as hunting an animal," Bergemond murmured, lifting his hand in the air and tipping it forward.

The two hundred knights in his service spurred their horses, their arms and helms flashing in the light of the rising moon, their horses snorting as they picked a path down the rocky rise.

* * *

From the opposite rise, the sharp eyes of Saalcaf's Brotherhood watched the pale light dancing off silver tipped armor and pointed spears. Ras gnashed his fangs and growled, wild-eyed, shifting his weight back and forth, tasting _tark_ blood already.

"Easy…" Saalcaf breathed. "We wait until they reach the bottom."

* * *

Deep in the gulch, Aarth-Anghum and his team caught the sharp scent of horseflesh. Their keen ears heard heavy hooves crunching snow, and the clanging stirrups of riders in closed rank. But they waited, silent, denying their every instinct to flee until the horsemen reached the mark: a small flag tied by Ushatar on the low bow of a pine-tree, where the steep hill began to level off. The knights picked up their pace and crossed the line, and Aarth-Anghum and his fellows bolted. Hooves thundered behind them as the knights tore into the gulch.

"_Diis-ul!"_ roared Saalcaf, and Ushatar and the elite warriors of the _Krankluku_ rose from their hiding places and tore down the hill, followed by near a thousand male Orcs, every last one holding an image of Faalca's savaged body in their furious hearts.

Bergemond stopped in pursuit of his prey, stunned to see a thousand Orcs—and was that an Uruk?—tearing down from the forest, a heartbeat away from colliding into his knights. And then he understood: the goblins, the _animals_, had trapped him in an ambush, and the gulch he had thought to cut the dozen Orcs down in was about to become a killing field for Men.

"Corporal Darian! Ride to Minas Tirith! Ride hard, and tell the King what has happened to us here!"

Darian wheeled his charger, hearing Bergemond screaming a rally to the doomed Men as he galloped into the night.

Ushatar had no fear of Men in silver armor; they wore same tree-adorned breastplates as he'd crashed through a year before in Osgiliath. Nor did he fear their horses, like many of the regular Orcs did. He stayed low and cut the mounts out from under their riders, and when the riders hit the ground he did not play with them as was his way: he dispatched them with brutal efficiency. But it was Ras who was the terror of the field, so full of black rage that he needed no weapons other than claws and fangs. Every _tark_ was attacked with fresh, furious venom, as if each man was the guilty party. Screaming with the pain of Faalca's loss, Ras launched himself on top of horses, tearing armor apart with his hands, ripping heads and limbs, a demon dripping with red blood and pale, burning eyes.

There were not enough Men to kill. When only a handful was left standing, Saalcaf spotted Bergemond across the field—identified him as the enemy commander—and ran for him. Bergemond's bay charger reared into the air, hooves grazing Saalcaf's head. Saalcaf ducked and drove his sword into the horse's belly. The horse and captain both fell to the ground.

"_Gund-lat sur! Mauk-lat!" _ Saalcaf roared, brandishing his hooked sword.

The _tark_ warlord, sneering and defiant, rose to his feet, his chin high in pride as he stared down his enemy. And then Saalcaf's sword separated the captain's head from his body, and the battle was finished… but for one last thing.

There would be no Manflesh rewarding the warriors that night. While the regular Orcs took what plunder Saalcaf had allowed them—weapons, personal effects like rings, sensible things like boots—the warriors of the _Krankluku_ took the spears of the vanquished knights and spitted every part of a Man that was big enough to spear, then drove the steaks into the ground. Saalcaf claimed his territory with a long line of carnage, stabbing into the forest.

But privately Ushatar wondered if he wouldn't have done better to burn the bodies and scatter the ashes. He had seen the rider gallop off into the darkness, and if he knew anything at all about Men, they were even more ferocious in their desire for vengeance than Orcs. But the young Durub, raised up to face a hopeless battle against the Power, knew of no other way to wage a war but to stand his ground unto the end, dying on his feet as his sire taught him to.

* * *

Ushatar pulled Tara's gown over her head and pulled her body to his hips. He'd almost jumped her when he ran back into the cavern, but she would not have him bloody. She'd insisted they go to the hot spring, and she sat on the rock ledge while Ushatar ripped his clothes off and jumped in. Delirious with desire and throbbing lust, he'd plunged once into the hot water, and now he was ready to plunge into her. Frantic with relief that he'd returned, and sickly fearing the future, Tara wrapped her arms around his neck. She wrapped her legs around his hips, eager to have him inside her again now that she knew how delicious the joining of their bodies could be.

Ushatar could easily have brought himself to climax in ten hard pumps, but even in the after-battle haze that had always demanded immediate relief, the needs of his _udalgurz_ dominated his consciousness. He grasped her backside with firm yet soft hands, and pushed into her slowly, watching her through half-lidded, glowing eyes. A low, growling purr rolled in his chest as he entered her.

Ushatar knew that his pleasure would be all the more profound if he thrilled his mate's body along with his own. He read the signs of her body and listened to her breathing: sharp, tinged with a cry of pain, and he'd gone too far, too fast, demanding a retreat. When her body opened a little more and her breaths were snatched in quick, shaking gasps, he knew he'd found a rhythm that felt good to her.

Soon Tara gave vocal cries, moans of pleasure, and he intensified in speed, power, and depth until her already tight body gripped down hard and flushed with wetness. It was bliss for Ushatar to feel her gasped breaths, her pounding heartbeat, from inside her. He could feel her hot sex clenching and rippling along the length of his cock, he heard her moan in ecstasy as her pleasure peaked. Only then did Ushatar let himself go fully, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, holding her hips captive in hard hands as he thrust with fierce abandon.

The pleasure became pain for Tara, and then back to pleasure again, and then a wilder, terrifying mixture of the two as he brought her back to a climax all the more shattering, for coming so fast on the heels of her first. She clung to Ushatar, grasping his thick hair and yanking it, digging her nails into his flesh. Mindless from the powerful waves of pleasure and the thrilling power of his deep, hard driving, Tara bit down on his chest. Ushatar roared as he came violently into her.

He held her close, shaking hard, his mind blank and his body racked with bliss. She was warm in his arms, shaking as well, panting as if she'd run all night. As consciousness came back, Ushatar stroked her hair, then lifted her face to kiss her swollen, ruddy lips. She stared at him with wide, astounded eyes, and he knew that she'd never imagined the heights of pleasure he'd brought her too. But he was dismayed to smell a little fear on her, and then to see it in her wide grey eyes.

"Sorry," he whispered, kissing her gently, feathering his lips over hers. He feared that she might pull away now, having felt him true, but her hands, tangled in the cascading crest of his hair, pulled his face down to hers again. "I'm so sorry _ambal…_ I was too hard on you…"

Her lips trembled as she kissed him back. Then he felt them curve into a small smile and she said, "I _bit_ you. I'm sorry too."

"I liked it," Ushatar breathed, tightening his arms on her. His cock, still inside her, began to swell again at memory the tingling pain of her bite, and Tara moaned to feel it. He couldn't tell if it was a deep, deep pleasure for her, or a dread, but her body rippled again, clasping him inside her, going slick to welcome him. "Slow this time," he whispered, and he lifted her and carried her to a barely submerged slab of stone by the waterfall. Ushatar lay his mate down in the warm, shallow water. He covered her with his powerful body, and then he dug inside her, slow and deep, until her grey eyes rolled back, and Ushatar's knees went weak. He grabbed her hand and she clasped her fingers with his, and they found paradise together.

* * *

She didn't want him to leave her. Even though she'd been entirely without care in his arms, and the shattering pleasure he driven her to had erased all thought, when they returned to the cavern hand in hand life crashed back down upon them. They had won a near complete victory—and Ushatar had wisely spared her every detail—but Tara knew her birth-culture, and she'd realized that the Tark Durub that Ushatar referred to was a great and fierce king out of a legend. This King had defeated the Enemy, and if indeed he had a mind to destroy the Orcs, one loss for his side wouldn't be enough to turn his eye away. Indeed, it would likely make the king all the more determined to send more soldiers.

"I want to leave," Tara insisted after retrieving Ilzin from Brodha's daughter. She sat on their bed and loosened her gown, smiling sadly as the little Uruk-hai female latched greedily to Tara's breast, purring contently as she nursed. "In fact, I want us _all_ to leave. This place is no longer safe for us. They've attacked our hunters—and—and my Faalca—And now you all have thrashed a company of knights. They _will _be back once they see no dispatches are being sent to the king from the commander of that company."

Ushatar didn't dare tell her that one _tark_ had escaped, and was likely still galloping towards Gondor. "They don't know where exactly we are, Tara," Ushatar replied, more to calm her than anything.

"Ushatar… how hard would it be to watch our hunters disappearing into the mountain? Shari and I want to look for other escape routes."

She had read his thoughts exactly. Ushatar squatted down beside her, kissing the top of her head and running his palm tenderly over Ilzin's feather-soft black hair. "Where would we go, _ambal?_ If it is not safe for my kind—Ilzin's kind—anywhere in the world? Would it not be better, as Saalcaf says, to stand and fight?"

"No!" Tara cried. "That is certain death! The _tarku_ despise _our_ kind! Ushatar please! I love you, I love Ilzin… I've only just learned to love! This can't be all the time we have together! Please, Ushatar, please! Talk to Saalcaf, he has great respect for you. Make him listen! Pour over his maps and _find_ a place where we can go, a deserted empty place where we can live our lives in peace! I know you are a warrior, but I know too that you are so much more. Can't you see that _life_, any life, is more important than defying an enemy? Please, Ushatar…" Tara was weeping now, the baby watching with wide, frightened eyes. "If Saalcaf will not agree, then take us away from here! I know these people… They will kill everyone, down to the last little _dag._"

Ushatar, torn by two newfound emotions—love and loyalty—hung his head, knowing that he'd have to abandon one to save the other. He knew which choice he'd make—the love of Tara—if only it seemed possible! But Tara didn't understand that if this rare clan was destroyed, there would be no safe place for them anywhere. Their love was abhorrent to the world, and they had escaped death to many times already. Surely they couldn't escape their fate forever. And Ushatar—no longer a slave—would rather face his enemy with a sword in his hand, even for the last time, than run like a coward only to be cut down from behind.

* * *

"_Diis-ul!"_-"Attack!"

"_Gund-lat sur! Mauk-lat!" _-"Stand up! Fight!"


	41. Chapter 41

"Where exactly would we go, Ushatar?" Saalcaf asked dubiously, leaning on his arms on the long ale-hall table.

"Somewhere. I'd hoped you had maps we could look at."

Saalcaf sighed heavily, and looked across the table to Aarth-Anghum.

"It's a trouble to move so many. Our numbers were far smaller when we came, and we knew that this cavern—the clan living here—had been decimated. We knew it was a good place to live; some of us had seen it, when our clans fought together against Dwarves. It was a sure bet, Saalcaf Durub. Now we've no such boon."

"What about where we lived before? Can we not return now? When Dushtala was Durub, he split the clan because he didn't trust the Power's lies, so he came here. But the other part of our old clan, did they not join the Power? Wouldn't most of them be dead now?"

"We don't know that. We would take a perilous trip, exposed to enemies and sunlight, laden down with mates and _dagu_… The _tarku_ have horses. Ushatar might be able to outrun a horse, but the rest of us cannot. And if we encounter other Orcs, we can be sure of battle, or we will have to give up our way of life, for they do not know law."

Ushatar shook his head. "I would not wish to live as I did before: always watching my back, always fighting for dominance. I would not want my mate endangered by those who wouldn't respect our bond."

"Nor I," Saalcaf murmured. "So then we agree: it is better to stand and fight, and at least die on our feet, then face certain peril moving to a new location. And I do not see why we should die anyway. We can give them battle, our warriors are strong and even our mates are prepared to fight. And truly, after being wiped out so thoroughly, why would they continue to meddle with us? The _tark_'s throne is far to the south: what business is it of his what I do in my own Mountain? I don't send my warriors to see how things go in Gondor!"

Ushatar frowned. "Saalcaf… You do not know Men as I do. They have won a great victory, they are allied to Elves, and they see our kind as… Well, you see what they did to Faalca. Forgive me, but they didn't rape her, as we would have done to their females. They didn't _want_ to rape her. They wanted to exterminate her. They didn't put our hunters on their pikes to taunt us, they didn't do it to warn us against raiding villages. They did it to tell us what was coming."

Aarth-Anghum, coming around to understanding, asked in horror, "And what's coming?"

Ushatar swallowed hard and said, "My mate believes that now that they've defeated the Power—something _we_ couldn't do—they will come to kill the Orcs. They won't give up until every last Orc—every last _dagu_, my mate said—is dead. And we've only a thousand Orcs, and their families. The Tark Durub will know that number now, because of the one who got away. He will send a great force against us. He will rub us out, down to the cubs in our females' bellies."

"But that's madness!" Saalcaf cried. "Orcs and Men have lived together in the world for endless, endless years! What foolishness is that, a Durub who sets himself to wiping out another race?"

Ushatar closed his eyes and said bitterly, "That is just what the Power—my old Master's Master—intended to do to Men, using Orcs and Uruk-hai. That this clan didn't heed the call matters nothing: the Men will pay us out for what Orcs tried to do to them."

Saalcaf sneered, standing up from the table. "Then let them come! They will see that we Orcs will not go so quietly into the void they plan for us!"

Aarth-Anghum watched Saalcaf stalk away, his old eyes wide in fear. Once Saalcaf entered the tunnel to the lower cavern, Aarth-Anghum said, "How sure can you and your mate be of this… this coming… extermination?"

"Tara knows her kin and what they're capable of. And I know what my orders were, when I was a soldier in the War. We cannot be sure entirely, not being in Gondor, not knowing this King. But Tara believes they will want us all dead, and I agree. And maybe it would be better to risk the dangers we spoke of—slow travel, other Orcs—then to wait here like rabbits in a snare."

"But the dangers are profound, Ushatar. If the _tarku_ are truly coming, we'll have to move fast, and even still they might run us down. Nevermind the other Orcs, this is what our greatest danger is."

"Staying _here_ is the greatest danger, if the Tark Durub wants Orc-life gone."

Aarth-Anghum sighed. "Saalcaf will go to tend his weapons and make his battle plans. I think you and I had better seek more guidance. If we knew for sure that this King means to finish what the Power started, then you might be right, it might be better to flee. But it is a risk I will not advise the Durub to take, until I know for sure."

"How can we know for sure?" Ushatar asked, but his insides tightened and coiled painfully, because he already suspected the answer.

"We must consult the sorceress."

* * *

Ushatar's skin crawled under the milky, all-seeing yet blind gaze of the sorceress Ranash. Since the last time he'd seen her, she'd diminished in size, and now she looked like a pile of skinny bones held together by a rough leather bag.

"Aye," she hissed, "The King has Come, and he will wash his hands in black blood ere he climbs his throne."

"So it is true, Mother?" Aarth-Anghum asked softly, "The Tark Durub will make a War to destroy the Orcs?"

Ranash gave a cracking moan, shaking a leather satchel, throwing a pile of knucklebones to the bare dirt floor. She bent her head over the bones, her loose white braids swinging as she rocked. Her fingers—as skinny as the bones on the floor—rubbed over the grim runes, and she gave a hiss, proclaiming, "Canna see, canna see… One king rises as another falls… The Great Goblin shall return, to claim a field of death… Bring me my bowl! Bring me my bowl! She must look into the eyes of the _tark_…"

Ushatar's eyes widened as Gadhaal—dressed in a rough hide wrap, her black braids unbound—entered the cavern with the sorceress's scrying bowl. She was as beautiful as the first time he'd seen her, wrapped in Draagh's furs and reeking of his sex, but when he saw her eyes they were horrific, as if all her light had been snuffed out. What remained of Gadhaal, Ushatar wondered, and what was this empty version doing serving her mother in dark magic?

Gadhaal crumpled to the floor in silence, while her mother hovered about, smoothing the floor before Gadhaal with craggy hands. Gadhaal set the bowl down and her eyes closed. Ushatar nearly jumped in terror as he felt the silence bend and shape and hum around him. Gadhaal opened her eyes and they were pale, fogged like her mother's. A chill of revolted terror gripped Ushatar.

Then the former Durlob sighed, and her voice was as pure and cold as winter snow. "The Ranger-King sets many spears against us…"

"Look deeper, _dag-izub_," the old sorceress breathed, peering over her daughter's shoulder.

Gadhaal moaned softly. "Black blood stains the snows, the Mountain becomes a tomb. The Great One must claim his steed and ride, or the Orcs will meet their doom… Two roads may be travelled, and both must need the sword…"

Her breathing became labored, as if she were running in panic. Gadhaal whimpered and cried, "The horses are coming! They are coming, Mother, help me, help me!"

Ushatar felt her terror like a spear in his gut. Ranash bent down and took Gadhaal's shoulders in her palms, shaking her out of her trance. Gadhaal gasped for her breath, keening mournfully that the end had come, the end had finally come, and then she cried her dead mate's name softly, and Ranash pulled the scrying bowl away. Gadhaal slumped as if her spirit had left her, and Ushatar curled his lips in disdain and dread.

"Get you gone, _baalak!"_ Ranash commanded. "You've work to do."

Ushatar took one last look at Gadhaal, laid low by black sorcery. Then he turned on his heel and fled the chamber, Aarth-Anghum quick behind him.

"We must go," Aarth-Anghum said. "There's no doubt, we must flee. The Mountain becomes a tomb, and I won't be buried. If Saalcaf wishes to stay behind…" Aarth-Anghum thought of Ranash's words as well, that one king would rise and another fall, and he thought privately that Saalcaf was doomed. "The clan split once before, and we are all free here, to stay or go as we please. I will speak once more to the Durub, but then I go to break down my _dar_ and pack up my family. I don't know where we'll go, but we can't stay here. What will you do, Ushatar?"

Truthfully, Ushatar thought he would vomit. Magic appalled him. He'd been possessed by sorcery before, and there was no way to fight it. He was so shaken by the sight of Gadhaal under its sway that he could hardly think of the threat before him. There was no comfort in her message. It seemed better by far to flee and yet Ushatar had no wish to be run down and spitted by charging knights. _The horses are coming…_

"I will get some air, Angha," Ushatar said, reeling, suddenly deeply claustrophobic. "I'm going to the surface for a little while. When I come back, I'll talk to Saalcaf again as well. I don't see how we'll convince him to make a slow, dangerous journey… I don't see how we'll _survive_ such a journey… But I won't stay here and wait to be burnt up by the King of Men."

* * *

Ushatar walked in the pale light of a cloudy winter day. He didn't wish to leave the Mountain: it was the place he'd learned to live in freedom, to associate with other males without violence, to be a proper mate, and the place where his first child was born. Yet for all those good memories, already a dark pall hung over the craggy peak, as if the Shadow had returned. And in truth it had, driven by the hands of Men rather than the Eye of Sauron, with little import in any differences between the two.

If only there were more Orcs to stand with! There _were_ others, but they lived under a curse of violence and disunity. Rare it was that Orcs would band together, without some far more dominant force making them do it, enslaving them with a hard hand. But was there no other way to make them understand? Ushatar would take his mate and _dag_ and flee the Mountain, but without some way to bring equal battle to the Men, he would only be putting off the inevitable end, the doom of his race.

Hearing the sharp squalls of crows and crebain, Ushatar realized that he was wandering back to the battle site. He stood at the crest of the hill, buffered by the wind that carried his scent down to the field of spitted, rotting cadavers. A dark shape slunk away into the forest, doubtless some fell scavenger come to the easy feast. Drawn to the carnage, Ushatar picked his way down the hillside. The scent of death was thick in the air, and Ushatar palmed the hilt of his sword.

Sudden unease struck him. He did not mind the rotting corpses of Men, but he was sure he felt eyes on him. Ushatar turned about in the wind, trying to catch a scent, but the wind battered him wildly, confusing his senses.

All at once his body bristled; he'd caught the scent on his tongue. Ushatar drew his sword quickly as a low growl rumbled through the gully. Ushatar spun again, and then his eyes widened and he crouched low. The great black shape stalked out of the shadows, amber eyes glowing, fangs three times as big as Ushatar's flashing in the blackness of the beast's immense maw.

The warg emerged from the forest and wove through the line of impaled Men. Ushatar growled and tightened his grip on his sword, waiting for the beast to charge.

And then the warg came forward, bent its forelegs, and bowed before Ushatar.


	42. Chapter 42

"His name is Morulur," Aarth-Anghum breathed, stunned to be in the presence of such a creature. The warg—a giant black wolf whose withers were higher than Ushatar's shoulders—stood at ease with his great head bowed. If any other than Ushatar approached him, his lips would curl into a growl. But Ushatar had his fingers knotted around the shaggy black mane.

"There are near sixty of them left in these mountains," Ushatar said, licking his teeth in sheer delight. "They will carry us. They are hunted as well, and they would go North, had they protection."

Aarth-Anghum shook his head, face crinkled up in amazement. "_You_ know this? Those who dwelled here before spoke to wargs, but…"

"I just know it," Ushatar said passionately. "I could not tell you how, but I hear his thoughts, and he hears mine. He says there is a place to the North, where there are trolls and other packs of wargs, and Orcs as well. He wishes to carry us there."

"We would be attacked on all sides…" Aarth-Anghum breathed.

"Only for territory!" Ushatar said, shaking his head. "Not extermination. We will fight to just above their level of skill, not so much more, just enough to let us claim a mountain, and we will dig inside it ourselves. Maybe—the pack hopes—the Tark Durub won't follow us there. We only have to _get _there, and then pick our fights around a good bit of land. Now with Morulur and his pack, we won't be easy for the _tarku_ to pick off on our journey. We can give them slaughter for slaughter, and their horses will shy and bolt, and meanwhile our mates and little ones can get to cover. Aarth-Anghum… We must leave, you know it. Now we can."

Aarth-Anghum was heartened. "Mmph," he snorted. "Now we can, Ushatar. But there will be _many_ trolls for you to kill in the Northlands."

Ushatar laughed, ruffling Morulur's fur. "Good! I need to improve my skill."

* * *

"We will be leaving," Ushatar said, a touch of pride in his voice as he stepped into his _dar._ He was warmed deeply to see Tara sitting on his furs, playing with Ilzin. He squatted down beside her, waving his fingers gently over Ilzin's face. The baby, on her hands and knees, tried to push up and reach for them. Ushatar grinned to Tara. "Saalcaf is convinced. We've determined it will take some ten nights for warriors from Gondor to arrive. We will need to be on alert until we go of course, but Saalcaf figures that if they have smaller stations around our area, they wouldn't have enough Men for a rout anyway. We will take four days to ready."

"Why so long?" Tara asked, anxious to flee.

Ushatar gave his angular grin, and Tara thought he looked as excited as a child, yet as severe as as an effigy. "Do you trust me?"

Something about his bearing wouldn't allow her to say no. Ushatar stretched his hand. Tara picked Ilzin up, wrapping a small fur around the naked two month old; then she stood. "Is it… dangerous?" she asked.

"Yeah," Ushatar laughed softly. "We'll see if Brodha can watch the baby."

Of course the old Orcess delighted, and she had two nursing daughters on the off chance the baby—whose feedings were regular now—might be hungry. Ushatar promised he would not keep Tara long from their child. He took Tara's hand in his, and led her up the tunnel.

Outside it was nighttime, but there was a full moon that snuck through the bows of the evergreens surrounding the opening of the cave.

Ushatar turned to Tara. "Are you ready?"

Curious, she nodded, and Ushatar put two fingers to his lips and whistled a high, eerie call. Tara gripped Ushatar's other hand, bewildered. "Shh…." he murmured.

Tara's sight wasn't nearly as good as Ushatar's, nor her smell. When she heard twigs snapping and snow crunching, and then a low, growling breath, she took fright and hid behind Ushatar's arm.

The warg stepped into the moonlight, fangs and eyes gleaming, a giant shadow that blotted out the darkness and sucked in all light.

"Oh, shit…" Tara whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

"This is Morulur," Ushatar said softly, his hand up to stroke the beast as it came close. Morulur took a great sniff that blew Tara's hair off her shoulders, breathing the human female in. "He approves of you, though he despises _tarku_ in general. His pack will carry our warriors when we go, and if the white-skins come on their horses, we will head them off while you get to safety. Horses… they don't like wargs," Ushatar said, laughing gently. "But it will take a few days to get the warriors accustomed to riding, to find the right mount for each one… It's a mind-thing. You have to be able to talk to your warg in your head, and Morulur tells me not every Orc works with every warg."

"We can get away!" Tara gasped. "Oh, Ushatar… We have a chance now!"

"A damned _good_ chance, _ambal. _So…" Ushatar whispered, grinning. "You want to go for a ride?"

"Oh—Um—" Tara laughed breathlessly. "I don't know… I've never even rode a horse."

"Morulur's no _horse._" Ushatar left Tara's side, knotted his hand in the warg's fur and launched onto his back. Teasing Tara, he rode the great beast in a circle around her. "How do I look? To a _tark?_"

"Fucking terrifying," Tara said, wide-eyed. "But I don't think _I_ count as a _tark_ anymore."

Ushatar hissed a little laugh. "No, maybe not."

He stopped beside her, leaned down and extended his hand. Wild-eyed, Tara slipped her fingers over Ushatar's hand. He grasped her wrist and pulled her up behind him, where Tara felt the hot, powerful body of the warg between her thighs. "Hold me tight," Ushatar warned. As soon as Tara's arms clasped around his waist, Ushatar thought _run_, and Morulur wheeled around and bolted.

To ride a warg on the wind was nothing like riding a horse. The very motion of its back snapped the hips of the rider, and Ushatar might have been troubled by the stinging in his back and leg—the troll's gift—if he didn't love flying through the forest so much. Tara clutched at his back, pressed her cheek to his back, not daring to scream as the black forest rushed past in a blur of shadow and moonlight.

The beast tore up the mountainside, its claws gaining a purchase on the steep rocky slope no lesser creature could have managed. Near the high peak, Ushatar brought Morulur to a halt. Far beneath them a dark, ancient forest lay black against the earth. Beyond, the steppes of Rohan unfolded in the pale shining moonlight, still and quiet. In the far distance, sparks of orange torches flickered in a village of Men. Far, far to the south, Lord Darian, Corporal of Horse, sped on his third half-dead mount towards the White City to report the Orcs' insurgency, and the slaughter of Bergemond's company.

Ushatar looked out on the world from his high mountain peak, thinking that it was far big enough for all kinds of folk, and longing for a great host of his fellows to run into battle behind him, so that he might claim a place in the world for his kin.

"I am sorry, Tara, for Faalca's death."

Catching her breath, in awe of the view and the massive wolf that had brought them to heights no Man could climb, Tara asked, "What could you have done? I miss her every moment of every day, but surely you could not have prevented it…"

"I _will_ prevent the next Faalca," Ushatar swore. "Daumani, Brodha and her daughters, even Shari… Our females, our young, all of us _must_ have a safe place in the world. I will not rest until I make that place for us. For you, for Ilzin… For all of us, and all who would join us. It will be a long, dangerous journey, Tara, and we will be chased and hunted the whole way. Once we arrive in the northern wilds, we will have to fight for a place to call our own. But I swear to you, Tara, I _will_ make this place for us, if it's the last thing I do."


	43. Chapter 43

It took five days, until midwinter, for the Brotherhood to find their mounts and gain the most basic proficiency in directing the wargs and seating their hard, snapping gate. Morulur was the largest by far, the pack leader who'd been watching and studying Ushatar for some time. Wargs generally refused to carry Uruks—even in Isengard, where some of the Uruk-hai had been able to communicate with the wargs, only Orcs were chosen to be their riders—but Morulur knew his pack would soon be hunted out of existence if they did not form an allegiance with Saalcaf's clan. If anyone wondered why the alpha warg had forgone the alpha Orc Saalcaf and chosen Ushatar for his rider, they did not speak of it.

The _Krankluku_ didn't feel entirely comfortable mounted, but they could linger no longer. It had been a full six days since the battle, and the Knights of Gondor had already set out, a great host of fifteen hundred veteran warriors bent on their noble genocide. So at twilight, Saalcaf's clan emerged from the home they'd known for a half-century, laden down with the poles and hides of their _daru_, with only the most important personal possessions on wooden sledges. The females hauled the sledges and their little _dagu_ both. Gadhaal pulled her ancient mother Ranash on a sledge, as the sorceress couldn't walk well anymore. The male Orcs, armed to the teeth, walked on the outside, and the Brotherhood mounted on their dark steeds rode the perimeter on high alert. Everyone save Ushatar, Tara, Ilzin, and Nemli rubbed their bodies down with ointment and wore hooded cloaks of thick hides to protect from the burning rays of the sun. Ten small wargs, pups of varied sizes, trotted along unmounted near the female Orcs.

"I know they've probably spared us a slaughter," Nemlii grumbled, "but they give me the shivers."

"You should try _riding_ one," Tara laughed. "It's so incredible."

"Are you the same girl who came here last year, afraid of her own shadow?"

"That girl wasn't really me," Tara said. "I think if anyone from my old home saw me now, they'd say they knew I was a bad sort all along, and it's quite fitting where I wound up!"

"Let's hope no _tarku_ see you at all," Daumanii said darkly, pulling her burden up to join her friends. "Urauk says we'll be a few days ahead of the white-skins, but that isn't nearly enough for me. I can't get it out of my head… What they did to her…"

The three friends fell silent for a moment. Faalca's murder was too cruel to bear, too awful to speak of. And yet even Tara and Nemlii knew that they must _never_ forget, not only because they cherished Faalca's memory, but because they knew the knights would serve each of them the same way. Tara thought that the worst punishment of all would likely be dealt out to her, because she had embraced the Orcs. She stopped pulling her sledge for a moment, and hugged her sleeping baby tight to her chest.

"You all right with that load, Daumani?" Nemlii asked, looking at the very pregnant young Orcess. "You're about term. We don't need you dropping the little one on the open road."

"Oh… I'm fine," Daumani said, finally smiling a little. "We had to leave so much behind…"

"Nemlii and I can split your burden between us," Tara offered.

"I'm all right for now," Daumani replied. "But maybe after the next rest?"

"Certainly," Nemlii said. "Look at Shari over there. Not even four moons along, got all of her and Saalcaf's things parceled out to her sisters. But I suppose she's Durlob now."

"And loving every moment of it," Daumani groaned. "Gadhaal drilled us with weapons and planned all the celebrations… Shari's got a lot to live up to before she starts taking all the privileges that go along with her status. Being Durlob means a lot more than just opening your legs for the Durub, and driving all of your friends and family mad with bragging!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say _mad_, exactly," Tara laughed. "It's nice to see her happy."

"Well I'd like to see a little more _work_ from her," Daumani said, "and a whole lot less gloating."

"At least she's content with Saalcaf," Tara said. "She's cooled down a whole lot, since they mated."

"You mean she's stopped openly leering at _your_ mate!" Nemlii chuckled.

"Speaking of…" Daumani said, grinning, "We all meant to ask you: what _were_ you doing at the spring the other night? We heard roaring and moaning and screaming... Nemlii here wondered if we should come and save you."

Tara blushed to the tips of her ears. She looked out in the growing darkness to where Ushatar rode Morulur, loping back and forth up the line of travelling Orcs. He broke down to a walk beside Saalcaf, and Tara lost her breath a little seeing the way his hips rocked with the warg's stride.

"Oh, she's hard under the spell now," Nemlii laughed. "Bout time, at any rate. It's a treat to see you so happy with him, after that rough beginning."

"Just don't turn into Shari. One female with nothing but mating on her mind is enough for us to handle!"

"I don't even know how to explain it," Tara murmured. "It's like he… he knows what I'm thinking, he knows what I need…" Tara stopped then, her eyes welling with tears. "Faalca tried to explain it to me once. I wish she was here, so I could tell her that I understand now…"

"Poor Ras," Nemlii said. "He's hardly eating, my Daghri tells me. Just enough to keep a little strength, in case he gets to fight again. He's said he wants the knights to come back, that's when he'll feast, and not a moment before." The Dwarf shuddered, considering it. "If he isn't talking about killing _tarku_, he's not talking at all. Faalca's sister has had to take Brogud. Not only can Ras not feed the little one, obviously, he can't even look at his _dag_ without seeing Faalca and going wild with grief all over again. I'd keep clear of him, Tara. Somewhere deep down he knows it's not your fault, but the sight of you causes him pain. I don't think he'd hurt you, but better to be safe."

"Ushatar has told me a thousand times," Tara said, shaking her head. "I just wish I could tell him how _sorry_ I am. Maybe when the grief has softened…"

"It won't," Daumani told her. "That's the other side of the bond, and Ras and Faalca bonded as little _dagu._ The pain of her loss will be an open wound for the rest of his life."

"If I were to die suddenly…?" Tara asked softly, watching as Ushatar turned now, and galloped to the rear with Saalcaf and four of the other _Krankluku._

"Ushatar would be like Ras, inconsolable. So don't go getting killed," Daumani advised.

Tara shook her head. "Don't plan on it. But I wish… I wish I could share in the bond with him. I love Ushatar completely, but is it enough? I mean… This _udalgurzu_ thing is so… so _intense._ Is he missing out, that I'm not an Orc, and I can't read him like he can read me?"

"Oh, honey!" Nemlii cackled. "You are sun and moon both for the _baalak._ Just love him, that's enough."

They walked through the night, on a rock forest path chosen to frustrate horses, until the moon sank behind the mountains and the dawn broke grey and dreary. There would be no privacy, bedding down with a thousand families, but Tara lay her fur blanket between two thick oak trees, and put her sledge between her blanket and the little bed Daumani made for herself and Urauk. She gathered water from the nearby stream to wash up a bit, and then she slipped under her blanket and pulled her dress off. Exhausted from the long walk—they'd covered almost thirteen miles—Tara fell asleep after nursing Ilzin, listening to the soft domestic sounds of the Orc familes around her.

Not long after, Tara became drowsily aware of Ushatar's hands smoothing up the back of her thighs. His warm hand pushed between her legs, stroking her the way he'd discovered made her ever more ready to welcome him. She moaned softly, shivering as he lay over her back, as his legs pushed hers apart. "Sleep…" he breathed in her ear, pushing inside her with decadent slowness. Feeling herself in a delicious dream, Tara kept her eyes closed as her mate worked her with clever fingers and long, slow strokes. Her sigh shuddered against Ushatar's low, rumbling purr. Tara's first climax come in a sweet gentle rush, and Ushatar grinned, delighted.

As her wetness rushed over him, Ushatar plunged hard into Tara's belly, withdrawing slowly only to thrust himself to the hilt again. He picked up his pace just a little, hips pressed tight to her backside, satisfying himself with breathtakingly deep, rolling strokes rather than wild fast pounding. Ushatar sensed how this impassioned his mate, and he wasn't surprised when loud cries escaped Tara's lips.

"Hush…" he growled softly, reminding her that they were not alone.

But Tara was drowning in the ecstatic crescendo of deep relentless pleasure. The combination of his great size and slowly twisting hips rendered Tara helpless and shivering beneath his sensual attack. Tara snatched at Ushatar's hands, clasping her fingers around his, drawing his hard grasp to her breasts, her throat. "Ushatar…" she moaned, forgetting everything in the world except for her mate and the bliss he brought to her.

"My Tara…" he breathed in her ear, blissful. He kissed her throat and ran his lips over her jawline, rocking her slow and deep and hard. Ushatar shuddered with the unbelievable pleasure he took from her body, while relishing how fully he satisfied her.

His sharp fangs grazed her shoulder, nipping sensually, playfully. Tara realized that she knew how to give her mate as much as he was giving her. Tara knew what Ushatar wanted—needed—from her. Gasping as he pushed her mercilessly towards yet another exquisite climax, Tara sighed, "Mark me… Mark me, Ushatar…"

Ushatar nearly exploded right there, but instead he drew back, illiciting a desperate whimper from Tara. "Oh don't stop… please…oh _don't stop_…"

"Shh, _ambal_…" his murmured, rocking her again.

"Mark me Ushatar…" she moaned arching her back, pressing her hips against his. "I want it… _You_ want it…"

"I don't… don't want to hurt you…"

"Mark me…" Tara breathed, "I want to feel it… feel _you_… all the way…"

Ushatar groaned, getting wilder now, losing his restraint, plunging into her harder and faster. _Yes, yes…_ he thought, delirious as his pleasure threatened to come too fast to a monstrous, shattering peak. Beneath him Tara was twisting, gasping and whimpering, trying to take his deep, driving thrusts. He slipped his hand under her again, rhythmically stroking the tiny intensely sensitive place he'd found on her sex, caressing her until she took his deep feral fucking with wild pleasure. Ushatar almost lost his mind, but he knew the time wasn't right just yet.

And then he felt her sudden renewed wetness, felt the blood rushing in her veins, heard her desperate mounting cries… He felt it begin again, that deliriously incredible thing her body did as she came, the rippling, clenching vice of her sex that started tightening at the tip of his cock and rolled all the way down. Ushatar grabbed a fistful of Tara's thick black hair and pulled it aside, totally exposing her smooth ivory shoulder. He pressed his mouth to the soft spot where her neck met her shoulder, kissing it, running his tongue over it, waiting for Tara to approach the ultimate peak of her pleasure while holding himself back from his own. As soon as the cry broke from her throat Ushatar pierced her skin and sunk his fangs into her flesh, and lost himself completely in explosive, bloody bliss.

He clung to her for long moments, clutching her neck and shoulder with his fangs, unable to move. Ushatar had never known such pleasure-not only the fierce ecstasy of marking his mate at the peak of their pleasure, but also the quieter, warmer joy that their union had finally been completed. Ushatar thought back to the dark moments in the cell at Isengard, when he'd marked her in desperation without any idea of what he was doing. How much sweeter it was now. Trembling, he withdrew from her, and she snatched his arms immedietly around her.

"You alright?"

"I don't know..." she breathed. "That was... insane..."

He frowned, licking his bloody lips before burying them in her hair. "Insane bad?"

"No..." she sighed, twisting about in his arms. Her eyes were bright, almost feverishly so. Ushatar cupped her cheek in his big palm, and she relaxed into the touch. "We're together in every way, Ushatar. Even if... if the world ends tomorrow, we... we're one now."

Ushatar sighed in perfect content. It was as if she, finally, had read _his_ mind. He wrapped his arms around his beautiful mate, closing his eyes as the sun crowned over the horizon.

* * *

"We'll take the High Pass and come down on the western side of the Mountains," Saalcaf pronounced, sitting atop his burly brown warg with his hand on his hip. "If there are still Elves left in Imladris—and Ranash says that most of them have gone across the sea—we will be able to avoid them by pressing close to the mountains. We will look first to settle in the ancient region of Angmar."

The very name sent a chill up Ushatar's spine. _But perhaps that isn't a bad thing. An ally of Sauron, the demon-shade of that King of Angmar will have gone into the shadow, yet the reputation of the place might keep our enemies away._

"You don't like magic, Ushatar Azat-horn," Saalcaf said with a smile.

"No. When you've been enslaved by it, you learn to hate it. I put my faith in my sword. But… If we were not warned by Ranash, maybe we'd still be in the Mountain. Surely the _tarku_ have arrived already, days ago. Maybe they turned around when they couldn't find us there."

"Or maybe there are Rangers on our tail. We'd better ride to the back of the line now, and do a patrol."

"Saalcaf!" Ushatar hissed, holding his finger up to his lips.

The Durub followed Ushatar's gaze, and his eyes widened. At the base of the mountain, near the entrance to the High Pass, six grey forms lingered by a mountain stream, taking on water.

"Saalcaf… They are Uruk-hai!"


	44. Chapter 44

Ushatar rode down the mountain, leaning back as Morulur picked his way down the steep trail. The squatting Uruk-hai turned as soon as they caught wind of him, and four of them stood. Ushatar was bristling for a coming fight; yet at the same time, he felt deep longing for a familiar face. Even to see another like himself was somehow soothing: he'd thought he and Ilzin were the only two Uruks left in the world.

Morulur halted at the tree-line, a good twenty feet from the Uruk-hai. Ushatar saw immediately that they were a pitiful, wounded lot. Skinny, exhausted, and bearing open wounds, the Uruks were nonetheless growling and ready for a fight. Perhaps moreso, if they'd been unfortunate in battle lately. Ushatar was a lone Uruk-hai; but he was unaware of his own air of dominance, a thing that had snuck up on him when he started to fight for those he loved, Tara and Ilzin, Urauk, Faalca, and the entire clan. And of course, Morulur's presence gave any attacker pause. Ushatar stared at the Uruks, thinking it was their part to speak and justify their presence here.

His show—dominant but not yet aggressive—released some tension in the travelers. Not much, but just enough for one to speak.

" 'ey! I know you! Pen Six, eh? It's the hair, who could forget it?" So the largest among them, bleeding from a fresh arrow-wound to the soft bits just below his shoulder, spoke to Ushatar, hoping against hope for a leader.

"You have had battle!" Ushatar called, inviting explanation.

"Four days back! We had twenty with us, from thirty that banded together when the Power fell. We're all that's left, after the battle."

"Battle with what?" Ushatar asked, alarmed at an enemy to his kind so close.

"Elves and Men, piss on their pale faces!" a squatting Uruk bawled.

Even though this caused him dread concern, Ushatar couldn't help his lips twitching to a small smile, hearing again the gruff soldier's talk he'd been born to. "Is the Enemy close-by?"

"Oh, aye!" the boldest of them spoke again. "A great host from the Elf-country, and Men of Gondor as well! Only fifty chased us down, but they had seven companies or so."

"Fourteen hundred?" Ushatar flared.

"Close to it!" the Uruk called. "And that don't count _Golug-hai_."

"How far away?"

"What's it to you?" one of the squatting Uruks querried, exhausted.

"_How. Far. Away?_" Ushatar demanded again, his mind already thinking of the battle formations Gharsh-il had barked about for taking down superior numbers. Ushatar did _not_ want the females involved in battle with _tarku_ and _golugu._

"Two days on foot," the ostensible leader called. "But they got _ruku._"

Ushatar looked the six over, knowing they were beaten, hungry, and injured. They were dead if he left them behind… and besides, they were his _kin_, perhaps the only ones left. Yet they were Uruks: they would not slow the clan down, even if they'd lost limbs. A meal and a nice sleep safe among comrades, and their strength would be restored. But Ushatar wouldn't bring them _close_ to his clan unless they submitted to _his_ authority first.

"Step off the trail, so no _tark_ scout sees you. I will return. Wait for me, and maybe you will have a good meal, a little _akrum_, and perhaps some safety."

The Uruks stared with disbelieving—yet deeply grateful—faces. Ushatar wheeled Morulur, and galloped back up the trail.

* * *

"Finally took another mark," Shari murmured, coming up behind Tara on the bank of the stream.

Something about Shari's tone set Tara off the wrong way. She felt compelled to cup her hand over the place her mate had marked her; but Tara'd worn her hair off her neck for Ushatar, and she wasn't about to make a liar or a coward of herself. "Yeah," she said, smiling shortly, hauling the water-skin out of the stream.

"I'm glad!" Shari laughed, flinging the water with the toe of her boot. "You will both be happy now."

"I hope so," Tara said, deeply aware of Ilzin in the sling on her back.

"You know where we are going, don't you? To the Ettenmoors. A place of trolls and wild Orcs and even evil shades. Where the _warg_ wants to go. Where Ushatar said we should go."

"Where we have a chance to fight for a little territory," Tara said, turning to face the new Durlob.

Shari arched her eyebrows. "You've no _idea_ how many we will fight against. There are ten clans around Mount Gunderbad _alone. _Your mate is going to get us all killed. He should listen more, and talk less."

Stunned, Tara asked, "Do you want me to tell him that?"

"It might be a good idea. They've certainly never seen _your_ kind before. To tell you the truth, Tara, I'm afraid for myself. And my baby," she added, rubbing her belly. "But whatever they do to me…" Shari clucked her tongue softly. "It would be a thousand times worse for you. Take care, Tara," the Durlob said, and then she walked away.


	45. Chapter 45

"Come on, let me see it! You're too big a buck to be cringing away," Brodha said, keeping her chatter light. The big Uruk, his thick black hair in matted locks, pulled his hands away to reveal a hideous, gaping wound in his belly. He was too hurt to care much for the strangeness of Orc females around him. Ransorr, Brodha's daughter, held a bowl of water to his lips and he drank with choking sips.

Brodha looked over the warrior's head, meeting Ushatar's eyes grimly. She turned to her daughter. "Too big a wound to sew, Ransorr."

"Pack it, then?"

"I think that will do well enough, but boil the rabbit-skins well in a willowbark infusion. Might make the blood run a little more, but that will keep it clean and keep the infection out, and maybe dull a little of his pain. See if I've any honey left, and put a paste of honey over the packing before you bind it up."

"I'm dead," the Uruk muttered, turning his dull eyes away. "Don't waste your supplies."

"What's his name?" Ushatar asked the big Uruk who'd spoken first.

"Ikhurz."

Ushatar squatted down by the injured Uruk. "Ikhurz, we don't leave anyone for dead. You all are the first I've seen of my kind in near a twelve-moon, and your lives are worth far more to me than a few bandages. Listen to Brodha, let her heal you, and maybe you will live to take your revenge."

Ikhurz grunted softly, as if the idea appealed to him but he didn't think it would happen.

Ushatar let it be: Ikhurz would live and see, or he would die. Already Ushatar wanted to incorporate these new Uruks into the clan, though the decision would rest with Saalcaf when he returned from his patrol. At the very least, the Uruk-hai had necessary information, and the Durub wanted them held to tell their tale. Ushatar wondered what Saalcaf would think of this army of Men and Elves so close-by. He looked across the camp, searching for Tara, always anxious when she was out of his sight. What would _she_ think of the Uruks? Ushatar hoped fervently she would not take terror of them.

Ikhurz—who looked like he'd taken a spear to the belly—was the worst off. The other four had arrow wounds, and one a sword cut on the thigh that gave the warrior a limp. Ushatar turned to the leader, who had only a bloody puncture beneath his shoulder, the arrow long ago snapped off and pushed out. "What's your name?"

"Bartaazgur. I am at your service. I've no sword left, but I will fight for you." Bartaazgur looked warily about—eyes wide in amazement at the sight of so many Orcs—as if he expected the fight to come soon. "You are the commander of this group?"

"No. My name is Ushatar. Our leader is Saalcaf, and he's out on patrol. If you wish, you can give your arm to him, as I have. Walk with me a bit, Bartaazgur, and tell me about your journey. We are fleeing an army as well; perhaps the same one, though I do not understand how they'd come to be with elves. Men of Gondor, you said?"

"Aye, _tarku_ with the White Tree on their cuirasses. Like I said, seven companies at least, and about half that in Elves with them."

Ushatar let out a low whistle. They were outnumbered two to one at least.

"Your… your females… they fight too?"

"No," Ushatar said sharply. "They must hide, and go on without us if we fall."

Ushatar saw Daghri swigging from a canteen of _akrum_ while polishing his sword. He bent and murmured to the Orc, and Daghri passed Ushatar the hard drink, taking a surreptitious look at the Uruk. Ushatar took a short drink himself, and offered some to Bartaazgur.

"What happened to you anyway, Ushatar? I heard you'd been caught with weapons and thrown in the _dar-daghum_. We all figured they'd forgotten to feed you and you starved to death in there."

"I escaped the day they let me out, and I never looked back. Had my mate with me, a _sharlob_ from the pits. I didn't want her hacked up, didn't want her _there,_ and I had enemies who were coming for me anyway. Wasn't any point to stay, and every reason to go. When did you leave? When the Power fell?"

Bartaazgur was astounded, but he let the bit about the mate go and said, "After Isengard was destroyed, we followed Lieutenant Rakhan to Mordor and joined up with the Eye. Once the Power fell, we ran, chased by everything on two legs and sometimes four. Wasn't nobody there to give us meat, so we stole from villages, got chased out, killed… Went from thirty to six, wandering with no end in sight and no others to join up with. It's a shame of a life. We found a little shelter, then left it when we saw the army on the march our way. Didn't know their scout party was out an a bout, and they ran us down. When you came on us we were talking about running back to the white-faces, at least having a glorious end rather than this miserable beggardly shit of a life."

Ushatar wasn't sure where to start. He wondered that they did not hunt. But then, if Ghuribal hadn't told him to make a bow and do the same, what would he have done? For all the power of the Uruk-hai, they did not know how to survive without their Master. "You say… Isengard was destroyed?"

"Wasn't there myself, but Skrashtu— the only one joined us later in Mordor—he'd been through it. The very trees—same sort as tried to kill us off after we lost the battle for Rohan—came to the Tower, smashing folks with boulders. They broke the dam, and anyone underground surely drowned. Skrashtu was running to the surface to fight. He remembers the water rushing in, something hitting him in the head. Then all went black. He woke up ashore of the river, far downstream. Damned lucky, he was. Not many made it out, and anyone locked into their cells was done for."

"The _trees _did this?"

"Aye, crazy talk, that's what I'd have thought too, if I hadn't seen a… a _company_ of them after the Deep, swallowing up our boys. The screams… I hear them in my sleep. They were special types of trees though, not nothing like this forest here. Still… I'll feel better to be on open ground again. Say… what is this all about, anyway? All these Orcs together, and no one fighting! I can't say I might it, especially after what we've been through. But what sort of folk _are_ you?"

"We're free, Bartaazgur. Each Orc respects his fellows, gets a mate and has his own little ones. There are more females than males. For that alone, I've hope Saalcaf Durub will let you join us. And why should we fight each other, when our enemies are just over the mountain?"

Bartaazgur grunted, nodding. "Makes some sense to me. We'll fight with you, even Ikhurz if his guts keep inside. We won't start no trouble either, I'll see to—"

The Uruk stopped short, staring at something over Ushatar's shoulder. Frowning, Ushatar turned.

Tara stood behind him, her eyes wide and her fear strong. She shook her head slightly, and asked in a soft voice, "Ushatar?"

Instantly Ushatar bristled. "My mate. Don't look at someone's mate, it's a rule we have. You don't have a thing to say to her."

Bartaazgur scowled, and a low growl rose from Ushatar's belly. But the Uruk was so astounded he didn't even hear or sense Ushatar's rancor, which was incredible in itself. Bartaazgur blinked hard, and Ushatar realized what he was looking at: Ilzin, in her sling, peering over Tara's back. "Is that—Is it _us_? How…?"

Ushatar backed to Tara's side and wrapped an arm around her hips. Tara's fingers knotted in his vest, clinging to him. Ilzin squealed in delight and took a fistful of Ushatar's braids, trying to gum them. "Ilzin is near three moons old. Born free, the natural way."

"I can have this too? A little whelp of my own?"

Ushatar exhaled his heat shakily. "Find you a mate that wants you, yeah. First things first, though: seeing if the Durub will let you join us, and giving the white-skins battle. Then maybe you'll find a mate."

"I'm gonna get me an Elf girl," Bartaazgur grinned.

Ushatar raised a brow dubiously. Remembering how his feelings for Tara had made him a target in Isengard, he deliberately bent and kissed the top of her head. Bartaazgur, perplexed frown still on his face, looked down at his ragged sandals. Likely he was wondering that Tara wasn't screaming and pleading, but standing by Ushatar's side. "It's a better life, Bartaazgur. But we're as hunted as you, and we have to fight hard to keep our ways. Go back to your fellows, I'll send over some food. What have we to eat, _ambal?"_

"Um—" Tara cleared her throat nervously. "Rabbit stew… And a little dried venison."

"There it is," Ushatar said, friendly again. "Go rest a while."

"Yes, sir!" Bartaazgur said, trotting off faster than Ushatar could correct him.

Tara gasped, leaning into Ushatar, pressing her fingers to her temple. "What the _fuck_?"

"They are lost and hunted, starving and in maybe two cases dying. And they may be the last of my kind, Ilzin's kind. What else could I do?"

"_Two of them?"_

Ushatar grimaced a little. He'd no idea she would take in badly… _Stupid,_ Ushatar thought. _Of course she'd be scared!_

"There are six, _ambal_, but they won't hurt you. Even if they can get through the hundreds of Orcs who'd run to your defense, they'd still have to get through _me._ And they seem eager for orders to follow, and a sense of purpose. We'll watch them hard, but I hope they'll take to our ways."

"Oh Ushatar… When will this end? Between my kind, and now these warriors... they remind me of the _War_," she murmured breathily. "I just want to set our _dar_ up again and be safe."

He wrapped his arms around her fully. "I'll make you safe," he promised softly, kissing her brow.

"What about this place we are going? I will be safe there, truly?"

Ushatar breathed her in, closing his eyes. "It's the best place we can think of to go. And we'll get there. Now I know how big the host we face is, and it's not so bad. Saalcaf and me will think of some way to beat them, and we'll go to the north and set up our _dar_, and raise our little ones."

Tara smiled, laughing a little. "Little _one_ for now. I don't think I'm ready for another just yet… And besides, we don't usually catch babies while nursing."

Just the thought of laying her down made Ushatar excited. "Not for lack of trying," he murmured in a low, rich voice. He cupped his finger under her chin to lift her face, kissing her warm lips, and thanked whatever fate had let him find her for the thousandth time.

Saalcaf, after a little convincing on Ushatar's part, grudgingly allowed the Uruk-hai to remain with the clan, at least temporarily. The Durub knew that at least four of them would be formidable warriors, much needed as soon as battle was joined. He ordered the clan back from the High Pass, and told them to make camp deep in the thick pine forest. At night, Saalcaf and the Brotherhood held a war council by moonlight. He'd not managed to see the army they faced—the wargs would not cross into Elven territory—but he'd found one of their camps, and by the signs he confirmed Bartaazgur's estimate of the enemy's number. All that remained was to devise a plan of attack, and find a way to secure the females away from the battle.

In the morning, Tara, Shari, and Nemlii, left the group to inspect the rocks. Nemlii was certain that the rocks were right for caves, and before long they'd found four satisfactory places to hide away while the battle raged. Tara was sick to her stomach at the thought of Ushatar fighting again, and at the very real threat that if all went wrong, she would likely see Ilzin killed before her very eyes. The thought had her shaking with panic but she held it down, for when they returned to the group it fell on her and Nemlii to advise the other females where they would go. And then for the rest of the day and into the night, Tara gathered her family close, playing with Ilzin and making love, hoping the the heavens not for the last time.

Tomorrow at dawn, the males of Saalcaf's clan would seek, and most likely find, full out battle.


	46. Chapter 46

_Wait for me here, I will call you._

Ushatar held the giant black wolf's shaggy face in his big hands, shaking it a little in a playful show of dominance. He turned his back on Morulur, and the warg slipped into the shadows. Ushatar checked that his sword slipped from its scabbard smoothly, and adjusted the leather tunic he wore over the shining shirt of ring-mail Aarth-Anghum had quickly cobbled together for him from the armor of two _tarku._ The shirt couldn't show just yet.

"Let's go," Ushatar commanded. Bartaazgur fell in line beside him. Skrashtu, Frushkul, Fulkdur, and even the injured Morburz—who would have had to have been tied down to keep him behind with the females and Ikhurz—slipped down the rocky hillside with sixty of the largest Orcs in Saalcaf's clan. The Orcs were concealed in hooded cloaks of leather or pilfered homespun, and their bodies had been rubbed down slick with balm against the coming sun. The prior day's reconnaissance told them that scouting parties and messengers often set out at dawn, when the Orcs they were hunting should be hiding from the light.

The _tark_ camp was on a hillock bordered by a wide marsh, too deep and treacherous for horses and two-legged creatures to pass through. Behind this was a thick forest that rose back into the mountains, and here was where Aarth-Anghum and the _Krankluku_ lay in wait on their wargs, who would tear through the low water without any trouble at all. Before the camp the hills of North Hollin rose towards the mountains, but there was a narrow pass between two of the lower, tree-covered hills. No doubt the _tarku_ had chosen this spot thinking their enemies could not approach in large numbers, not without defenders taking the hills and raining arrows and death down on them.

There had been little sign of Elves the day before. Elledan and Elrohir had indeed received the host of Gondor in Rivendell only days prior, turning there for forage and intelligence after the Orcs appeared to have departed without a trace. A hard rain had fallen two days after midwinter, turning snow to slush and obliterating the Orcs' sign. Fortunately for the Men of Gondor, a company of Elves from Mirkwood had stopped over from escorting dignitaries to the Grey Havens, and agreed to join them. The panicked Bartaazgur had counted each Elf twice, but all the same a good three hundred idled in the _tark_ camp.

As Ushatar and his 'Uruk-hai' set out, five hundred Orcs behind them made themselves invisible against the rocky ground. Saalcaf, mounted, had led the rest of the Orcs up the hill in the grey dawn shadow and morning mists, where they would wait until the party in the pass was under full attack. They were confident facing the Knights of Gondor, for Ushatar had shared one of Gharsh-il's favorite tactics with them, and they'd spent much of the journey preparing. But Ushatar wasn't comfortable with the ruse, and he'd told Saalcaf as much. Rather than hearing Ushatar, Saalcaf had brushed off Ushatar's concerns, even bristled a little at being challenged before the other warriors.

Well, Ushatar would make the best of it. Now that they had passed the defile, Ushatar motioned to the trees, and his cohort slipped into shadow.

They'd not long to wait. As soon as the pale dawn burned off the fog, a small company of armed riders trotted out of the encampment, preparing to do a sweep of the more northerly peaks. Had the Orcs not prepared, this would be the morning they'd have been discovered and rubbed out. There were but twenty scouts, and immediately Ushatar singled out the survivor, a lanky beardless fellow on a dappled grey mount. Ushatar pointed him out, and the word slipped almost silently through the group of sixty: this one was to be wounded, not killed.

Soon the riders approached, spears held aloft, the soft sound of leather brushing leather. The Men had perfect discipline, riding in utter silence. The streamed down the path, long hair flying beneath their silver helms. Bartaazgur growled softly, licking his lips, eager to avenge himself and Ikhurz who lay dying. Ushatar held his hand in the air the way Draagh had done, staying his warriors until half of the riders had passed…

"Attack!" Ushatar roared, and the Uruk-hai and disguised Orcs rushed from the trees, plowing into the scouting party. With three Orcs to each man, there was little contest. Ushatar launched himself onto the ranking officer, throwing him from his horse, smashing his fist into the Man once before decapitating him. The scent of salty sweet white-skin blood filled the air, and Ushatar roared in glee. The Orcs dispatched their Men with quick efficiency, but the Uruk-hai warriors, after a year of living like scurrying rats, relished their moment of power restored, tearing into their prey with vile wrath. The scouting party, save the one warrior who'd been fortunate enough to escape with only a leg wound, was destroyed in almost less time than it took to make a bird call. With deliberate, provocative cruelty, the Orcs made sport of the corpses, feeling the exact moment when the hot eyes of the _tarku_ in their camp fell upon them. Ushatar rose from the carnage and shielded his eyes with a hand, watching as Men darted about from tents, yanking on shining armor and throwing tack onto their horses.

Soon a host of Men and Elves, led by Gilhilad and Elledan, rode out from the camp, spotting the Uruk-hai. Six were visible as such, the rest were in shadows, and the moment they saw the defenders the tore like whipped demons for the narrow pass. Commander Gilhilad raised his arm in the air, about to signal the charge, when Elledan spoke crisply against it.

"It seems to me these beasts wish for us to follow them. Did they not use a similar bait and trap to destroy Bergemond and his company?"

"They did indeed," Corporal Darian, on Gilhilad's other side, confirmed smartly.

Gilhilad, raging at the sight of the mutilated corpses of his scouts, retorted, "These are Uruk-hai, not the Mountain Orcs! We saw them first days ago, and killed a good number. We thought there were more lurking about, and here they are!"

Elledan arched a dark, perfect eyebrow. "Six are Uruks, yes, but the rest were in shadow, and my senses tell me these are just the Orcs you are looking for. They have set another trap for Men. Will you follow Bergemond into it?"

Gilhilad grunted, stroking his beard, feeling the impatience of his Men behind him. "All right, Lord Elledan, I will hear your council. Take half of the Men and your Elves up that hill: if it is indeed a trap before us, you will wait until we are caught, and rush down from high above. I will lead straight on. Lord Darian: take the Rangers with you and travel with Elledan, but when they go up the hill you ride around, fast and far. Get behind these devils, and follow their tracks up into the mountains. Find their nest, and when we've finished with this lot, we'll destroy the rest."

Ushatar ran past the hidden Orcs, whistling for Morulur. As the Orcs and Uruks following him took their positions, Ushatar mounted the warg and waited behind them. The Orcs were tense: muscles flexing, fingers curling around their new weapons, skin starting to feel the uncomfortable heat of the sun. The low pattering of hooves soon became thundering, but Ushatar's eyes widened in horror as he saw the company split and an Elf-lord lead near eight hundred of the white-skins up the hill, directly for Saalcaf's position.

He forced his attention to the mission at hand. "Move into position!" he bellowed, and the Orcs filled the pass, the first ranks squatting on the ground, the rows behind kneeling and standing. The horsemen barreled for them, their cantering opening to a flat gallop, their wicked lances lowering as the knights made straight to skewer the Orcs in the pass. Many of the Orcs, not in the Brotherhood, threw terrified eyes about, smelling the sharp scent of horseflesh and fury. They could almost feel the wind from the charge in their faces, and it seemed the knights were about to mow right over the Orcs.

"Now, now, now!" Ushatar roared, and the first line of knights hammered into the Orcs. A great squealing cry ripped into the air. The Orcs had hidden their enormous spears at their feet, and knights flew from their mounts as the horses impaled themselves on the Orcs' spears. The middle ranks could not stop their horses in time, smashing into the carnage. Men flew into the waiting arms of the Orcs, and Ushatar felt a thrill of victory.

Until the sounds of battle joined carried down from the hilltop, as Elledan's company plowed through Saalcaf's Orcs just as they prepared to rush down the hill. The predators had become prey, and black blood flowed down the hill like dark snowmelt.

Motion caught Ushatar's eyes. The warg-riders, led by Aarth-Anghum though a frantic Ras was barreling ahead of the Brotherhood, raced towards the fray. Ushatar forced his way through the battle, the giant warg Morulur leaping fallen horses and panicking living ones. Ushatar slashed violently with his sword, determined to beat a path to the other side, driven by desperation. A knight's sword grazed his abdomen but was repelled by the mail shirt, and soon Ushatar was beyond them. Ras and Aarth-Anghum, and the rest of the Brothers, were charging straight for him. Ushatar raised his sword in the air and pointed to the hillside. Saalcaf was badly outnumbered on the high-ground, while the Orcs in the pass were hacking their way to victory. The plan would have to change, and Ushatar hoped feverishly that they would obey him, though Saalcaf had given his orders.

"Saalcaf needs our help!" Ushatar called, wheeling around on his blood-thirsty steed. "Ride to the top of the hill!"

Ras was fiending for flesh and too crazed to care, but Aarth-Anghum nodded instantly, changing his direction. The Brotherhood drove their wargs up the hill behind Ushatar, desperate to even the odds for their embattled Durub.


	47. Chapter 47

"Oh no, oh no!" Shari cried, grabbing Daumani's hand in terror. The sound of hoof-beats was unmistakable, hoof-beats caused by a large enough group of riders to bounce pebbles on the floor of the cave and send small rocks rolling down the walls.

Daumani pulled a long knife from her belt, clinging to it like it was a log in raging whitewater, the only thing to keep her afloat. Gadhaal had trained most of the Orc females in rudimentary fighting skills, but now the former Durlob sat with empty eyes, rocking and moaning slightly, whispering of horses and swords. All eyes were on Shari, who'd earlier insisted they split into only two of the four caves, perilously close together. She'd been confident before, grinning as if triumph was a foregone conclusion, giving Saalcaf her bare throat and tugging on his mail shirt before the Durub rode off to battle. Now she was as a terrified child, shifting her weight from foot to foot and whimpering in terror.

"Nemlii," Tara hissed, horrified. If the Men had come, did that mean…? She wouldn't think of it, not yet, but Tara felt certain she'd lose her mind as well if Ushatar was dead, Orc-bonded or not. Still: she wouldn't think of it yet. "Nemlii… there were little holes in the back. Might any of them be big enough to get through? Might they lead to deeper caverns?"

"Possible," Nemlii said quickly, her grandson in her arms. "But there are so many of us, and likely some are too big to fit through the passage…"

"Better than all of us being cut down!" Tara replied, hugging Ilzin tightly to her chest. The baby seemed to pick up on the mood of terror, like most of the _dagu_, clinging to her mother in frozen silence, her steely eyes wide.

"Yes, Nemlii, look!" Shari insisted loudly.

"Here," Nemlii said, passing the little Orc to Daumani.

Tara and Nemlii hustled to the back of the cave. The Orcesses were glad to see any sign of a plan, and they cleared the way, clutching their babies and denying their whimpers for the sakes of the _dagu._ They were all ready to fight—they'd been schooled under Gadhaal—but the old Durlob was gone into another existence and the new one wouldn't or couldn't rally the Orcesses to fight.

A lone pair of hoof-beats suddenly thumped the ground near the small mouth of the cave. A high _tark_'s voice bounced under the rocks: "Check these caves! That one by the clump of great ferns first!"

Orcesses to whom the foreign words were mindless chatter swooned silently, closing their eyes and holding their babies to their chests. Many of the mature females, in their prime, stood and slipped forward, ready to give their lives and hopefully take a few on principle. But Nemlii's plump small hand clenched to an excited fist and she shimmied her top half out of the hole in the low ceiling. Her blue-green eyes were bright. "I think we've got it!"

"They are outside," Tara said anxiously. Her heart was pounding in her ears. All around her, the warm frightened bodies of the people who had accepted her, who Tara'd put a salvaged life together around. But the Men were going to the other cave first, where Ranash was with many old, white-haired Orcesses. "Dammit!" Tara hissed, shaking her head. She was sure she could feel her heart breaking. At the back of her mind, she wondered if Ushatar was gone. And how many more moments would she have with Ilzin?

"Everyone!" Tara hissed. "Pass it on, there's a hiding place! But we must go quickly, all in one line, for it's just a little door in the rock."

Soft murmurs ran through the crowd, nods of approval, a very few relieved faces. Most were just glad to do _something_, no matter how futile it seemed, considering how close the enemy was.

Tara choked down tears, and held her beloved Uruk baby up over her head. She brought Ilzin close, kissed her pudgy grey cheeks, memorized the sharp, alert look of her baby's beautiful raptor gaze. "I love you Ilzin," Tara whispered, and then she turned to a meek Shari. "Hold Ilzin and follow me."

"Where are we going?" Shari cried softly, taking Ilzin in her arms and cuddling her tightly.

"We're going to buy time for them," Tara said, jerking her chin at the Orcesses swiftly and silently falling into line, climbing one by one though the tight crevice.

Shari, muting her terror humbly, nodded her head. "They will kill us."

"Not _quite_ yet," Tara said, a fatalistic smile flashing across her face. "Not if I run out to them alone."

"Tara! They will take you for sure! Your… your _neck_ alone… What will you do?"

"I haven't figured that out yet," Tara said, renouncing the quiver in her voice. "If I scream, take her as far back as you can go. If the killing starts—" Now Tara's voice broke to a quick, soft, heart tearing sob, and she nodded her head. "You know what. Quick, Shari. I don't want her knowing nothing about it."

Shari's eyes couldn't tear, but she leaned over and kissed Tara on the cheek. Tara pressed her other cheek to Ilzin's soft head with wild tenderness, and then broke away.

She heard the horses—sounded like they came to a halt—and stirrups clanging. She heard booted feet hitting the ground. _I can't believe I'm doing this!_ Tara thought, and then she closed her eyes and ducked out of the cave, emerging in the sunlight.

Their attention was towards the fern patch, so Tara slipped as far from the cave as she could quickly. Then she shouted, "Hi! Rangers! O'er here!"

They turned all at once just feet from the cave of older Orcesses, their greenish brown cloaks snapping. There was a handful of knights among them, in shining silver and black. Their leader had a thin white tree of mithrial on his shiny black cuirass. The Rangers were perplexed by the sight of a beautiful, oddly enchanted-looking young woman appearing from the mountain. They came towards her in astonishment, all sorts of cries of _miss, are you hurt?_ _lost? _on their lips.

The knight with the mithrial stared at her with wide blue eyes, a fair young face shining with astonishment and joy. "Tara! By the Grace of the Valar, Tara from Osgiliath!"

It was Darian.

"You know this woman?" the lead Ranger asked, astonished. But now that he looked, her quirky—yet strangely beautiful, in some perfect imperfect way—features were right, her coloring typical of a woman of Gondor.

Tara stood stock still, heart pounding. She realized belatedly that the Men couldn't smell her fear, and she put on a braver face. _Do I have a chance? Or will he react in disgust?_

"I know her!" Darian said, grinning in bemusement and wonder. He passed the reins of his bay charger to his subordinate and came forward, armor gleaming in the sun. He seemed much older now, or rather much more worn. There was stubble shadowing his jaw and sun-lines around eyes that new battle. "What in the world are you doing _here_? I thought you were lost for sure!"

Tara swallowed, stalling to find her voice. "You've changed," she observed. "You're a good deal graver now, my lord."

"My lord!" Darian laughed. "Tara! How incredible. But tell me, how are you here? There is a battle not so far off! You're lucky we found you! Tara—What has happened? Why tears? Has someone harmed you?"

Tara was trying to speak, though terror gripped her throat. There would be only one chance.

"I must beg your mercy, Darian," Tara said quietly, her tears running free.

"Mercy…?"

"For myself," she whispered, biting her lips, her knees gone weak. "Myself… and my family. A very large family…"

"By _Eru_, Tara, what happened to your neck? And what in the world are you talking about?" Darian asked, a moment away from making sense of it himself. There was nothing left to do.

"Please, Darian, will you do something for me?"

"Anything! But I grow bewildered by the moment with you, a feeling I remember well now!" Darian smiled richly.

Tara tried to smile; it came as a curl of the corner of her lips through her tears. "I want to show you someone, but you must swear not to hurt her. Or anyone. And… and your Men must swear as well."

"I command them," Darian said, frowning a little. "And I would hurt no lass!"

"All right, then," Tara said. She backed away, and then turned and walked to the cave. "Shari! Bring me Ilzin!"

Shari appeared behind the lip of the cave in moments, squatting in the shadows, Ilzin in her dark slim arms. "They're not up yet! Is there hope?"

"I don't know," Tara said honestly, taking her baby. She cuddled Ilzin closely, nothing peeking above her beautiful white fox fur wrap but her thick, straight black hair. She returned to Darian.

"The night Osgiliath was sacked, I was abducted by the Wizard of Isengard's soldiers. The Wizard wanted me imprisoned, with other women." Tara caught her breath—and the look of comprehension and revulsion suddenly shadowing Darian's face. "The Wizard's soldiers were his slaves. One of those slaves helped me escape, and we were given shelter by the clan of his ancestors' people. We fell in love, and all we want is to live in peace. All I want is to raise my daughter with my new family, in peace."

"Your _daughter?" _Darian breathed, eyes training again to the richly swathed bundle in her arms, this time lingering there rather than on the young woman's lovely face. "I didn't know you had a daughter!"

Tara drew her breath, and brought Ilzin away from her chest, cradling the bright little baby in her arms. Ilzin squealed with joy for the fresh air and new sights. "Darian, this is my baby girl Ilzin."

His eyes were wide, but she didn't wait for him to digest it. "I know there is a battle, my heart is in it. My husband fights your soldiers, and the only reason _why_ is because we were attacked. My best friend—a young mother—" Tara shook her head, fighting not to weep, "She was _cut to pieces_ by soldiers of Gondor. Her baby is but four moons old, and her mate has lost his mind in grief. She'd done nothing at all to anyone besides laugh and smile and love! And so that it didn't happen again the Orcs fought back. We've had to leave our home—_my_ home now, Darian, with folks I love—and all we want is to get to a safe place, far away from those why wish us harm for no reason at all. Please, Darian… I beg you, I will get on my knees and beg you, won't you please help me and my family?"

Tara shook the tears out of her eyes, trembling with fear and hope. Lord Darian, passing though all the emotions of shock, horror, confusion, and empathy, turned his back on Tara, his hand held hard on his hip.

"Achasdring," Darian called suddenly, cold anger in his voice. One of the Rangers stepped forward, eyeing Tara with grim dark eyes. Darian waved his hand towards Tara and said, "This woman is a traitor. Take her into custody, and the imp-spawn as well."

"What!?" Tara screamed. "No! _No!_ Darian, please!"

Five more Rangers came. The one called Achasdring grabbed Tara around her waist. Another seized the baby with hard hands, tearing her away from her mother. Ilzin squalled in protest, and Tara went wild with anger. But no matter how she fought and cursed and screamed, her hands were bound and she was thrown roughly over the back of a horse, the pommel of the saddle digging into her belly. The Ranger mounted behind her and they galloped off, Tara's wail of despair echoing over the mountain.


End file.
